


The Postman's Knock

by ironlotus, laststop



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Brief mentions of animal neglect, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Chilton is a Horndog, Dark Will Graham, Dirty Talk During Murder, Discussions of Murder as Foreplay, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Jealous Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Medium Burn, Minor Character Death, Murder Prenup, Murder as an act of Self-Care, Sassy Will Graham, Sensual Lobotomy, Sexual Harassment, Unethical Mail Carrier Practices, completed work, serial killers in love, the animal gets a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25898605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironlotus/pseuds/ironlotus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/laststop/pseuds/laststop
Summary: Guilford, a quiet, well-to-do neighborhood in Baltimore, has its peace shattered when Will, a discourteous postman, takes over their route, makes a habit of mishandling their mail, and wages war on Hannibal’s sanity.A war which will end in bloodshed, one way or another.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 234
Kudos: 922





	1. The Plague On All Their Houses

**Author's Note:**

> And none will hear the postman's knock  
> 
> 
> Without a quickening of the heart.  
> 
> 
> ~W.H. Auden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is beta-read by thecutestofborg and metricmadscience.
> 
> Approximately a 21-minute read.

~✉~

**The Postman’s Knock**

Chapter One

The Plague on All Their Houses

~✉~

If an institution could ever be a perfect embodiment of evil, it would be the DMV. The Postal Service, however, came a close second. A recent conclusion; one arrived at within the last several months only after Eldon, the neighborhood’s assigned courier for the previous ten years, retired. 

Eldon’s inoffensiveness and unobtrusiveness made him unremarkable. In this context, that could only be a good thing: nothing to remark on meant no complaints either. Exactly the way the distribution of the mail should be.

In truth, Eldon conducted himself in _so_ unobtrusive a manner that Hannibal remained ignorant of his retirement until well after the fact. If not for Kade Prurnell, the shrewd-faced woman who occupied the Colonial-style home two doors down, that may not have changed.

He happened upon her on his afternoon stroll, the early June weather warm but breezy enough to be pleasant, as she stooped near her mailbox, sweeping up the shattered pieces of an upturned terracotta flower pot into a dustpan. “Ooh—that good-for-nothing,” she spat, voice as sour as her expression.

“Neighborhood children running across your lawn again?” Hannibal asked, tucking a hand into his pocket. 

Kade looked up, her puckered lips deepening the wrinkles, already well-worn in from a life of a constant frowning. “No. It’s the mailman. No respect for anyone,” she huffed. “I was making lunch in the kitchen,” she pointed to one of the front windows, “and nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard this horrible crash outside. So I looked out the window to see what happened, and he had trampled over my flower pot. With the most vulgar language I’ve heard in my life! I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but he just drove off and left this mess behind for me to clean up.”

Throughout this impassioned speech, Hannibal’s eyebrows drifted progressively higher toward his hairline. This did not match his own impressions of the mailman. _No respect for anyone?_ “Perhaps Eldon had a difficult morning? I’ve never known him to be crass.”

“What?” Kade squinted. “No, I’m not talking about Eldon. He retired last week. I thought you heard.”

“I see.” He hadn’t heard, in fact. “What a shame. I would have liked to congratulate him before he left.” 

Kade dumped the clay fragments into a plastic bag, then tied it off. She stood. “Eldon _was_ a treasure. But Will? Well. You’ll be next if he means to continue on this way. He doesn’t seem to care much about making a good first impression. It’s only a matter of time before he goes stomping around in _your_ flower beds.”

Though Hannibal prided himself on having a finger placed firmly on the pulse of the neighborhood, he hadn’t noticed the switch in Postal Workers at all. He had yet to meet the mailman himself, and his own mail arrived with no sign of degradation in service. 

And yet, as the weeks passed, the discontented grumbles among his neighbors increased. _You’ll be next. It’s only a matter of time._ Proactivity seemed the best approach. He would arrange to witness this new mail carrier—Will—in action, in order to assess his own risk for falling prey to the plague that had seized the neighborhood.

A test. A controlled experiment. 

It took the form of an overnight package, sent from his office to his home the very next Friday. On Saturday morning, he settled in the foyer, newspaper in hand. From the vantage point by the front window, he waited. 

The mail truck arrived late and stopped halfway blocking Hannibal’s driveway. An unfortunate and dated-looking vehicle, at least fifteen years old. These monstrosities were built for longevity and fortitude and not much else. Likely without air conditioning, given the way the postal worker drove with all the windows rolled down. 

With bated breath, Hannibal stood by to see the alleged scourge of the neighborhood with his own eyes. The poor quality of his service conjured an image of some seedy-looking roustabout, with a beakish nose and greased back hair; a match of manners and mien.

But Will… Will would turn heads, even without the notorious blue uniform, the legs of his poly-blend trouser shorts sticking to his well-shaped quadriceps. With a mop of chocolate curls and startling blue eyes, fine features, and slender form, he made a pleasing picture. 

Will pushed those unkempt curls away from his perspiring forehead. So hot, though the sun still climbed towards its peak in the hard blue sky. Beneath it for less than a minute and sweat already gleamed on his brow. 

_No air conditioning, after all_. 

And yet, Hannibal didn’t pity the man; Will must have known what to expect when entering this line of work. One need only recall the postman’s creed: _Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night_ … 

A grimace, first towards the sun, and then toward the house. Will plucked a packet of mail and the experimental package from the truck. He crammed letters into the mailbox any which way, then marched up the walk to deposit the box on the top step, within arm’s reach of the door and in plain view of the sidewalk. 

Hannibal sucked a breath in between his teeth, counted to five, and under the pretense of hearing the delivery being made, popped his head out the front door. 

“Good afternoon,” he called, tone matched to his courteous smile.

Will, already heading back to the truck, pivoted and gave a stiff nod in return. “Afternoon.”

“You must be Eldon’s successor. I trust you have been finding this route easy to navigate?” 

A shrug. “Easy enough.”

Not one for small-talk, then. Not necessarily a fault—Eldon hadn’t been, either—though in light of the poor service thus far, he could at least make himself friendly. Hannibal stepped out from behind the door. “Hannibal Lecter,” he introduced himself, “though I imagine you’ve gathered as much from my mail.”

The man in question shifted his weight. “Will.” A pointed glance at his watch. 

Never mind the rudeness of not offering his own last name in kind, or the pretense that a man so notorious for his tardiness would care about the time. “I’m pleased to meet you, Will,” Hannibal said, determined not to let his annoyance show. “No wandering neighborhood dogs nipping at your ankles, I hope.”

“Dogs are the best part of my job.” This, delivered with a fleeting grin. 

A charming effect, spoiled by the impatience that settled back into his face on his next breath. Hannibal studied him a moment longer before observing, “Dogs are loyal, earnest, and uncomplicated creatures, unlike their masters.”

Will’s eyes narrowed. “You can tell when a _dog_ is going to bite.” 

_A warning, or an accusation?_

“Have you been bitten, then?” Hannibal asked, sensing an immediate turn in the conversation when Will’s fingers extended, stiff at his sides. A misstep, but not an insurmountable one.

Will checked his watch again, expression darker still. “Better go. Mail won’t deliver itself.” 

Hannibal stepped forward, poised to pursue. “While I have you, if I may? I am particular about my deliveries. I ask that you please place any packages of mine in a secure location. Behind one of the columns, out of view of the street.” 

The distant chattering of birds and hum of lawnmowers drowned out the silence suspended between them. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Will said after a beat, and without another word, continued on down Hannibal’s walkway towards the truck. 

Hannibal bent down, picked his package off the porch, and withdrew back into the house. Granted, Will came late. Hannibal may prize punctuality, but he would not change his mind on the Postal Service as a whole over the occasional late arrival. He marked the experiment a tentative success.

A conclusion reversed in the days that followed, as Will the Postal Worker’s crimes extended beyond tardiness. Hannibal’s packages went from visible to anyone passing in front of the house, to visible to anyone from any point on the street. He received them on his porch steps in a variety of miserable conditions: dented, ripped, and on the occasion that it rained, soggy. 

Better to be patient, to allow no reaction and let the situation sort itself out. 

But when days passed without any signs of improvement, Hannibal realized something vital about the new mailman: his retaliation came without reprieve. 

He must do _something_ before their barely cordial relationship grew beyond hope of repair.

Hannibal checked the weather forecast compulsively, choosing the hottest day of the week to set the stage for an apology. Though he had nothing to atone for, Will had made it clear that he felt slighted. A specially prepared lunch ought to smooth the miscommunication.

He held his vigil near the front window in the foyer. When the mail truck came into view, he waited for Will to flip open Hannibal’s mailbox before heading outside. 

As Will looked up at the sound of the door swinging open, Hannibal closed the distance between them. “This grueling heat,” he observed. “Come inside for half an hour to cool off. I have lunch. Spring rolls and a butterflied swordfish, garnished with lemon and parsley.”

What began as a subtle expression of displeasure grew more defined, an unbecoming glower distorting Will’s elegant, classical features. “Already ate.”

“A drink, then,” Hannibal tried. “I have some fresh coconut water. You may even take it to go.” When Will’s frown remained plastered in place, he added, “A small appreciation for the work you do.”

Will reached into his navy blue bag and produced a plastic bottle, half full. He shook it, and its contents sloshed. “Got it covered.”

Hannibal controlled his breathing, kept his face as still as he could manage. But he could not hide the impatience in his voice. “Forgive me for imposing on your time, then,” he bit out. “I’ll leave you to your lukewarm water and—” he inhaled, “—half-melted peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“Just like Pa used to make,” Will grinned. “You enjoy your afternoon, Doctor.”

And so, as the August afternoons grew hotter, their mutual antipathy too grew more pronounced. Hannibal recalled more than once the moment that he left Kade after her warnings about Will; the passing thought that he should _thank_ the new mailman for knocking over the pot and flowers so broadly considered an eyesore. For sparing him from raising the subject at the next community association meeting.

Alas, those feelings of gratitude had faded entirely away. 

He knew better now. 

A flick of his wrist to check the time before walking into the living room, with its unobstructed view of his flowering front yard, and parting the curtains to peek outside at the quiet street beyond it. 

When at last the lumbering, ancient mail truck rounded the corner from Greenway onto Stratford Street, it did so more than eleven minutes behind schedule. Will’s tardiness had developed into a habit in the weeks after his refusal of Hannibal’s olive branch; as did Hannibal’s returning home for lunch to clock the extent of said tardiness.

The truck came to a screeching halt where it always did: blocking passage up Hannibal’s driveway. Its metal door slid open, missing Hannibal’s mailbox by mere inches. The bang as Will slammed it shut echoed, loud enough to make Hannibal flinch even behind his double-paned glass window. 

Outside, Will delivered the stack of letters and a coupon leaflet, placing the standard-sized mail in the box first. When he came to an oversized flat envelope, the last item in the stack, rather than placing it inside with care, he rolled it, jammed it at the opening once before unrolling and folding it in half to try again. The hairs on Hannibal’s forearms stood up as the manila corners creased and crumpled. Butchery of Hannibal’s mail now complete, Will hopped into the back of the van to dig out the other neighbors’ deliveries, off to distribute them on foot while leaving the vehicle in front of the driveway. 

Along with the agitation towards Will simmering within him, arose a quiet sense of solidarity with his neighbors in knowing himself to be one victim of many subjected to this atrocious behavior. 

Hannibal let the curtain slip from his fingers back into place. Taking purposeful breaths, he retreated to the kitchen. A cup of tea would soothe his oncoming headache. 

He pulled the infuser from the dainty Japanese earthenware tea-pot the _Mesdames_ Verger-Bloom gave him after their most recent trip to corporate headquarters for their Asia Branch. The ritual of preparing and pouring out had an immediate calming effect, though the brew needed time to cool before he could drink it. The cup and pot he centered on a lacquered wood tray, which he carried to the living room and deposited on the round table between his preferred reading chair and the window. While the fragrant tea came to temperature, he headed out to his mailbox and collected his letters. 

The large envelope that Will stuffed inside—from Hannibal’s lawyer, no less—he found crumpled, mangled, and bent around the edges. Hannibal pressed his lips together. Mail retrieved, he returned to the house. He set the stack down on the table beside the pot and took a sip of the still near-scalding tea. With his other hand, he pulled the coupon booklet from the stack and flipped through each page. 

This, a lesson he learned from Tobias Budge. 

Will’s blight on the Budge house, a few blocks over, involved the insertion of the official-looking mail in the oft-unchecked and quickly discarded coupon books and leaflets which kept coming no matter how one attempted to unsubscribe. A particularly mean-spirited prank in petty retaliation for the way Tobias’ frequent visitor, Mr. Froideveaux, would leave his car parked in front of the mailbox during delivery hours.

Apparently, only Will could park anywhere with impunity.

Though Tobias Budge’s punishments had yet to afflict his own deliveries, Hannibal had learned to exercise caution. This time, the only casualty appeared to be his legal documents. As far as transgressions went, his mail had endured worse.

But the ringing of his telephone cut off further ruminations on the subject. He set the pile aside and answered, greeted by Alana Verger-Bloom’s distressed voice on the other end of the line. 

“You sound upset,” he said. “Has something happened at work?” Alana, an occasional consultant for the FBI, sometimes called him to talk through her conclusions when she’d reached a dead end. 

“No, no, not work,” she sucked in a deep breath. “Hannibal, I know we told you we wouldn’t be able to make it on Saturday,” she said, referring to his semi-annual community canape party, in a voice dripping concern, “but is there any chance you still have room for the two of us?” 

“Of course.” Alana and Margot made a lovely couple, a breath of fresh air among their more self-important neighbors. And it would be no trouble to include them; as an accomplished host, he always left wiggle room in the headcount when planning events for occasions such as these. “You sound upset,” he reiterated. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh. Well,” she sighed, then added in a quieter voice, “Margot’s brother just passed, and we won’t have any opportunities to celebrate for _months_ , given the stipulations of the will. But a community meeting like your canape party won’t violate the terms.”

“Congratulations,” he said, not hiding the humor and surprise in his voice. Anyone who knew Margot Verger and her brother Mason Verger knew they had no love between them. Hannibal met Mason Verger the one time; for Hannibal, one time too many. 

“But to have passed so young?”

“Oh, yes,” Alana said, her own voice replete with mirth. “Murdered. I’m really looking forward to seeing you on Saturday, Hannibal. Thank you again. I know how precise you are with the meal planning, I hope we didn’t throw things too far off for you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Okay. Saturday it is, then. I’ve got to go.”

He hung up the phone and put it down on the table with more force than intended, his sense of humor now thoroughly doused.

 _Murdered_. 

His plans for Mason, so meticulous and detailed... ruined. Someone had beat him to the punch. Not impossible, given Hannibal’s tendency to wait prior to following up on one of the business cards from his Rolodex, but uncommon enough for its occurrence to leave him profoundly displeased. 

With a name like Verger attached to the case, the news would have nothing useful or revealing to share. The Verger estate would keep security so tight that even Freddie Lounds would find it impossible to provide her usual level of detail in coverage. Alana had promised to reveal all, but with her natural aversion to violence, she may not be as forthcoming about the kind of information he wanted to know. 

Margot, however, would be. 

The catering company he hired to pass the canapes and beverages—one which he contracted after a coincidentally timed change in management following Hannibal’s discovery of petty theft at his dinner parties—had everything under control. He adjusted one last salmon mousse and cucumber bite on its doily before passing it to Marissa’s capable hands, and then opened the door for her to precede him out of the kitchen. 

He picked a glass of white wine from a silver tray held aloft by one of the passing servers and exited into the dining room. A tip of his drink to Kade when they made eye-contact.

“A pretty animal, though there’s little room in my life for pets,” Frederick Chilton said to a bored-looking Margaret Sutcliffe as Hannibal passed by. “But Constance—that’s Constance _Lamont_ , of the Martha’s Vineyard Lamonts—has been after me to adopt a kitten ever since Muffy conceived.” 

Hannibal squeezed the stem of his wineglass a fraction tighter. Chilton, the current head of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, had been trying to transition from institutional work into something private and, more to the point, with less public accountability. His attempts involved pursuing new clients from the circle Hannibal frequented, and now, apparently, going so far as attempting to poach Hannibal’s own clients. 

Much good it would do him. Even if his patients attempted a session with Frederick Chilton, they were a self-absorbed lot, manufacturing their own troubles and in love with the sounds of their own voices. Something Frederick shared in common with them, and which would eventually lead them, teary-eyed, back to the chair across from Hannibal’s, in his office once more. 

And at any rate, Hannibal had long ago filed away Chilton’s business card.

“—the Postal Service,” Dr. Donald Sutcliffe groaned, somewhere off to Hannibal’s left. 

His metaphorical antennae raised, Hannibal wandered over to join that conversation. “Good evening,” he said. Donald Sutcliffe, Margot Verger, and Mrs. Komeda milled around in front of the fireplace, each with a sausage stuffed mushroom in hand. Home-made sausage, of course, created with the help of a particularly loquacious pharmacist.

While the others shared similar looks of frustration, Margot, as usual, schooled her expression into the picture of polite disinterest. 

“I overheard unhappy tones of voice from this quarter,” Hannibal said, making a place for himself in the gap between Margot and Mrs. Komeda. “Nothing wrong with the food, I hope?”

“Oh, no, of course not!” Mrs. Komeda gushed, reaching to steal another ricotta and pear tartlet from a nearby member of the waitstaff. 

“It’s the new mailman we’re talking about,” Sutcliffe said, bringing a glass of whiskey, neat, to his frowning lips. 

“For all that he’s _quite_ the piece of eye-candy,” Mrs. Komeda said, and Hannibal caught the answering sparkle of humor in Margot’s expression, “he can be quite the terror.”

“ _Terror_ ,” Sutcliffe agreed. 

“He’s retrained Fiona,” moaned Mrs. Komeda. “Now she won’t listen to me anymore.” Fiona, her cocker spaniel, had achieved infamy for her constant misbehavior to begin with, no matter what Mrs. Komeda said.

“I picked up my newspaper the other day, and it had already been _opened,_ Hannibal. He _read my paper._ ”

A minor offense in comparison with the other reported troubles of his neighbors, though he could understand the frustration it wrought. Hannibal gave a hum of commiseration and saw Chilton skirting the edges of their little circle, ready to insinuate himself into the conversation. “Have you any complaints about our new Postal Carrier, Frederick?”

“Oh!” he said. “Appalling treatment.” His expression had a strange cast to it: outward disapproval, but containing a certain smugness, as though he didn’t actually mind.

“Boxes in plain view of the road,” Hannibal ticked off on his fingers, “bent and damaged envelopes, near-misses with the mailbox…”

“And his _package_!” Frederick interrupted, “—delivery.” Still leering, he popped a mushroom into his mouth.

Hannibal’s jaw ticked. His parties were not meant to be somber affairs, but this vulgar variety of humor did not belong here; Frederick ought to know better.

“I’ve seen our Will put ‘missed delivery’ notices into my mailbox _while I’m home_ ,” Frederick continued, speaking around the half-chewed bits of mushroom still jostling about inside his mouth. “He didn’t even bother knocking on the door to try to deliver it.”

While Hannibal could understand the attempt on Will’s part to avoid direct contact with Chilton, he disapproved of his lack of professionalism. But though he may be tormenting the neighborhood as a whole, Will’s worst infraction, in Hannibal’s opinion, lay in his disproportionate treatment of Hannibal and Chilton in particular. 

He did not appreciate the implication that they were on the same level.

“Are you talking about Will?” Alana came up behind Margot, a hand sliding up Margot’s arm to cup her shoulder. “We’ve known him for years and never had any trouble with him.”

“For years?” Mrs. Komeda asked, inquisitive as usual. As a novelist, she used every opportunity to find new sources of inspiration. 

“Yes,” Margot said. “His route used to cover Mason’s house when he first started working for the Postal Service.”

“He changed it after Margot moved out,” Alana continued in a lower voice for Hannibal’s ears, as Margot fielded Mrs. Komeda’s questions. “We have him over for lunch whenever he can schedule his deliveries to be nearby around that time.”

 _Hence the perpetual tardiness_ , Hannibal thought, bitter. _Delaying his route to meet the Verger-Blooms for lunch._ That Will should accept their invitation for a meal and reject even the _offer_ of water from Hannibal stung. Especially in the context in which he made it: an overture of apology.

One ear remained on the conversation, consisting of Sutcliffe’s groaning about the paper, and Chilton’s rattling off his own complaints, but Hannibal’s focus trained inward.

“Hannibal? Everything okay?” Alana asked, noting his inattention. 

“Yes, of course,” Hannibal stirred himself, leaving these unpleasant thoughts for later. “In fact, I thought we ought to break out the champagne. There is something to celebrate tonight, or so I’ve been told.”

“Hear, hear,” Margot said, rouged lips curling upward in the widest smile he’d ever seen her make. She directed her sparkling eyes toward Alana and brought their bodies close. A sweet, intimate gesture. In a world of their own.

Let them enjoy their celebration. Mason was already dead; the details of his murder would keep.

A few days after the party, Hannibal returned home for lunch and passed the time until Will’s arrival under the pretense of doing yard work. In talking to the neighbors, he made his displeasure with Will known. That would not do; they must see his relationship with Will as untroubled. In fact, not only their perception must improve, but the actual state of affairs must too; he could not stomach the idea of Will continuing to mangle his mail until someone else took over the route. While his lawn care service lived up to his impeccable standards, pretense dissolved into working in fact as he donned his canvas gloves and, crouching, wielded his soil knife to dig up the stubborn weeds from beneath his black hellebore flowers. Hannibal’s attention strayed from his watch, to down the road, and back to his watch again. An hour late. Will’s latest arrival since taking up the route. 

By now, Will’s tardiness spoiled Hannibal’s intention to apologize. With the unforgiving late-August sun beating at his back, Hannibal considered packing up and returning to the house, but then a recognizable metallic screech alerted him to the arriving mail truck. He waited for the shriek of the breaks to stop; his cue to wrap up his work at the flowerbed. But instead of fading into nothingness, a dreadful tinny clang reverberated behind him. Hannibal shot up and spun around.

The truck had not only swerved off the road and onto Hannibal’s meticulously kept lawn, but collided with his mailbox. As Will backed his vehicle off the grass, Hannibal marched with purpose down the walkway to inspect the mailbox for damage. The bottom right corner received the brunt of it, disfigured metal crumpled in on itself.

The truck door slid back. Will hopped out and waved, ignorant of the simmering fury behind Hannibal’s placid expression.

“Afternoon, Doctor. Sorry about the mailbox, overshot that one.”

“Good afternoon, Will,” he said, controlling the articulation of each consonant the way he sought to control his temper. “Accidents happen. I expect I will receive a check for the damages?”

Will squinted at the mailbox, then at Hannibal. “It’s just a ding.”

“A ding from your truck.”

“Hot water and a mallet,” Will waved his hand in the air. “It’ll pop right back out.”

Hannibal shook his head. “As I am sure you are well aware, damaging a mailbox is a federal offense.”

“If premeditated. It was an accident, as you said.” Will opened and closed the lid in demonstration. “Works fine.”

“I would rather not lodge a formal complaint.”

Will reached into his bag and rummaged around, pulling out a heap of wrinkled papers, littered with cramped notes and doodles of antlers rendered by an unskilled hand. From the lot, he plucked out a wilted business card, stained with coffee and lines of ink grooved deep by a loose ballpoint. “Here’s the number for the local post office. Complain anytime. It gets so boring over there, it might actually give them something to talk about,” he said, and stuffed the rest of the papers back into the bag with the same lack of care with which he seemed to approach every task set before him.

“Thank you,” Hannibal bit out around a strained smile, and took the business card from Will’s hand. He tilted it towards the sun and read the few printed lines. The address of the local dispatch center, and their general phone number, which would likely prove as unhelpful as the callous representative that stood in front of him. “I will be in touch.”

“Ask for Jeremy,” Will said. “Bob can be grumpy.”

Hannibal turned on his heel, heading back into the house. He scooped up his gardening tools from the lawn on his way, suppressing the urge to look over his shoulder to keep an eye on the infuriating farce of a public servant at the end of his drive. He fought down the impulse to dump his tools in the garage and tend to them later, to cleanse his mood with a shower. 

But despite his promise to Will, Hannibal had surpassed the point of calling the dispatch center. Any path of conflict resolution, even his most preferred, would take time. No matter which he chose, de-escalating this little war took precedence. A formal complaint would achieve nothing and satisfy no one. 

So for now, he returned to the kitchen and pulled the S.T. Dupont fountain pen he favored for its fine pointed nib, and in curling letters that cut across the soft, yellowing paper of the business card, wrote “Will” at the top. 

It occurred to Hannibal that he didn't know Will’s surname. A minor obstacle, easy enough to overcome. 

Once the ink dried, he put the business card where it belonged. Right in the front of his Rolodex.

~✉~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings fellow humans! Hello from Ironlotus and Laststop! Ironlotus is absolutely not an awkward cyborg in a skin-suit and Laststop is an excellent human that is not at all a cryptid in secret! Or even three cryptids on each other’s shoulders, in a bedazzled trench coat. We have written this story not to comfort you, but to terrorize your every waking moment. For, how can you rest easy, when there is such gross mismanagement of the mail happening out there as we speak? Enjoy!
> 
> We wrote this story before the US government began defunding the USPS in an attempt to sabotage the efficacy of mail-in voting. We like to think that we’re doing our part in raising awareness through this (very horny and murdery) USPS-related fic. If you have the resources and the time, please read **[this article](https://www.fastcompany.com/90540238/how-to-help-the-post-office-things-you-can-do-to-support-the-usps-right-now)** for ideas on how to support the post office, or check out the American Postal Workers Union page **[here](https://www.apwu.org/savepostoffice#:~:text=The%20Postal%20Service%20is%20in,%3A%20844%2D402%2D1001)** to see how they are asking for support.


	2. If it's in the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific TW/CW: sexual harassment, poor treatment of animals (nothing graphic).  
> Approximately a 22-min read.

~✉~

**The Postman’s Knock**

Chapter Two

If it’s in the news.

~✉~

The best part of delivering mail, hands down, was the dogs. The people, on the other hand, Will could do without.

_Have you been bitten, then?_

Will scowled. The kind of question typical of any psychiatrist. But coming from Dr. Hannibal Lecter, _PSY. D., M.D._ , it came off loaded with a subtext that made a chill run down Will’s spine.

Not enough to offset the heat trapped inside the truck, though. It made Will’s work almost unbearable. _Almost_. Even with the windows open, after baking in the sun all day, the truck felt like an oven on wheels. He adjusted the clip-on dashboard fan to blow hot air in his direction. Not much help, but better than nothing. With a damp cloth, Will wiped the perspiration off his neck and forehead and imagined being home, peeling off his sweat-saturated uniform, and settling in for the night with his dogs. 

Nothing made him so content as that return home in the evening to relax in their company. He glanced at his watch. A few hours to go, and then all the canine cuddles he could ask for. 

He parked a block away from Dr. Frederick Chilton’s home, the next stop on his route. Chilton made a habit of popping out anytime he heard the mail truck approaching. The second doctor on the block who insisted on coming home during the afternoon, and then prioritized their own time over Will’s by filling it up with pompous chatter about nothing. 

But first, lunch. Will reached into his satchel and pulled out a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. A little repetitive at this point, enough to make him sick of them, but how could he resist this classic staple of portable fare after Dr. Lecter decried them while insisting on Will’s company for lunch? He might have considered the offer, if not for the many double-edged suggestions that came before.

For example, when Will showed up to work in a rumpled, unwashed uniform: “May I offer you the use of my iron? It will hardly take a moment,” Hannibal had said.

To which Will responded, “No need. Give it an hour and it’ll be just as wrinkled. Not to mention the polyester blend would probably melt under high heat.”

And, on another occasion, when Hannibal prepared a tupperware meal for him, unprompted: “You must keep your energy up in this heat. A little protein scramble to go. Eggs and sausage.”

“I’m allergic to eggs.” A lie, but the quickest plausible excuse to hand.

Well-to-do suburbanites did not bother Will. People who tried to schmooze and wave their money at their problems and minor inconveniences bothered him. He wouldn’t bow and scrape for anyone. Least of all someone who, so buttoned-up, pristine, and controlled, made one wonder _what ugliness_ they were working so hard to rein in. 

At this point, Will could only guess at what shape that ugliness might take. But the shape didn’t matter. It was _there._ He saw that dark cast shining in his eyes every time he looked at the _good Doctor_.

After finishing his sandwich, he retrieved the handcart from the back of the truck to get back to work, but made it no more than halfway down the street when Chilton’s car crept by to his right. Will cursed under his breath. But to his surprise, instead of slowing down to flirt with Will through the open window as usual, Chilton continued past him, turning up the drive and stopping in front of the house. He got out of the car, looking harassed—face red, hair dishevelled, and suit askew—and walked around to the trunk, still showing no sign of having noticed Will at all. 

For which reason Will froze in place. The trunk popped open and Chilton, cursing, reached down to pull out a—

_A pet carrier?_

Will saw red. His legs sprang into motion before he even realized what he was doing, doubling his speed at the sound of a plaintive, desperate little wail from within the carrier. 

“Doctor Chilton,” he called.

“Will!” Chilton set the carrier down on the hot pavement at once, to straighten his jacket and pat down his hair. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead already, even after such a short time in the sun. 

_What the hell was he thinking, putting the carrier into the trunk!_

“Let me help you with that,” he said, picking the carrier up off the steaming cement and marching over to the front porch, where he set it down in the shade. Chilton followed close behind, but Will ignored his babbling to pop open the carrier door and pull out the poor animal trapped inside. 

A kitten. Sleek black fur and wide yellow eyes, mouth wide as it panted in a desperate attempt to cool itself. He could _kill_ Chilton. 

“There you go, sweet thing,” he said, pulling his water bottle from the side pocket of his bag to pour some water into the lid for the cat to drink. The little thing stumbled over its paws to get to the water, and lapped at it messily, droplets clinging to its whiskers and splashing every which way from its clumsy tongue. 

“—of the Martha’s Vineyard Lamonts, that is, gave her to me,” the doctor mumbled in the background, though he stopped the moment he realized he might as well be talking to himself.

At last, Will shifted his attention to Chilton just long enough to ask, “What’s her name?” Then, he ran his hand down her back, feeling for her ribs, the knobs of her spine. _A healthy weight_. He glared up at Chilton. _But not for long, probably._

“Darwinia,” Chilton chuckled. 

_What._

“That’s... a horrible name.”

“It’s appropriate,” Chilton corrected him. “I didn’t realize you liked cats,” he went on. “I’ve watched you with the neighbor’s dogs, of course. You did quite a number on Fiona.”

“She’s a good dog,” Will said. He turned back to the little kitten, who, now satisfied, put her forepaws on his knee and craned up to sniff at his stubble. “You don’t look like a Darwinia,” he told her, picking her up and cradling her against his chest. She went willingly. As he stood, her coat caught the sun, revealing a pattern of dark splotches, black on charcoal, so dark they only showed in the bright light. Like a black panther. “You look like an Artemis,” he said, marvelling at how little her tiny body weighed. “Goddess of the hunt.”

“She _is_ a Bengal,” Chilton went on, taking a step closer, reaching his hand as though to pet her.

Will stepped back. He knew where Chilton _really_ wanted to put his hands. “Looks a little young to be away from her mother.”

Chilton shrugged. “The, er, runt of the litter, as it were. And melanistic coloring, difficult for Constance—Constance Lamont—to adopt out. She’s a potential client that I’ve been courting, and the offer to take the beast off her hands seemed to leave quite a positive impression.”

_Beast?_

Artemis batted a soft paw at one of Will’s curls, which sprang back into place every time she hit it, but her body remained otherwise soft, relaxed in his hold. No one with any amount of intelligence could refer to such a cute creature as a _beast._ “Vaccinated and everything?”

“ _Not_ everything,” Chilton sighed. He seemed to be of two minds about this conversation: Will had never been so willing to share his company for this long, but he resented the sweet animal for taking the spotlight as the topic at hand. “She’s been desexed but the veterinarian refuses to complete the declawing procedure. Didn’t even tell me that I would have to wait until she’s recovered from this surgery to do it, and won’t refer me to someone who _will_.” He sighed. 

Will clenched his jaw. Tickling under Artemis’ chin brought him some measure of comfort; she bit down on the pad of his finger gently, her little milk teeth leaving indents on his skin, but no intention to harm behind the bite. _Do cats teethe this late?_ “She’ll make a good lap cat in the winter,” Will murmured as her gentle, rumbling purr vibrated against him.

“There’s no question of _that_ ,” Chilton snorted. “She’s in recovery now, but I don’t have the time or inclination to care for an animal that can’t care for itself. And that fur will get everywhere! Once she’s had her surgeries, she will be an exclusively outdoor animal. Cats are wild creatures anyway. Not as domesticated as we let ourselves believe.”

Will frowned. “You should get her inside. It’s too hot out here for her. She needs to cool off.”

“Are you inviting yourself in, Will?” The smarmy expression that Dr. Chilton reserved especially for Will made its dreaded reappearance. “Quite forward of you.”

“Thought it’d be easier than breaking in,” Will said.

“My, my. Handsome _and_ funny. A rare breed these days.” Chilton grinned. “Are you that eager to see the inside of my house?”

“That depends. Is it worth seeing?”

“Maybe I should let you decide for yourself,” Chilton teased. “Come on in, and bring _that_ ,” he said, referring to Artemis, “and the carrier with you.”

Chilton’s lingering gaze crawled up Will’s body as he bent down to grab the carrier, Artemis crooked in his right arm. But he didn’t stand and leer for long. He stepped ahead, keys jingling as he unlocked the front door. To his credit, he held it open for Will at least.

Will strode forward into a spacious circular room with stark white walls, decorated with large still life oil paintings. A glass table sat in the center of the room, a fresh bouquet in the sparkling crystal vase atop it. “Nice place you have here.”

“I enjoy surrounding myself with beautiful things,” Chilton said, though he frowned at Will’s dust covered black boots on his gleaming marble floor. “Follow me. I’ve designated a room for the cat. Can’t have it clawing up my precious Paolo Scialdone satin sofa. Only five exist in the world, you know. Cost me a small fortune.”

Will trailed after Chilton out of the foyer, passing a grouping of eccentric sculptures and a glass display case with what looked like antiquated surgical tools. Up the curved staircase they went, until they arrived at a spare room, with the bare essentials for a cat: a food and water bowl and a self-cleaning litter box. No bed. Will set the pet carrier down, and with one last snuggle, placed Artemis into the litter box.

“First thing is to show a new kitten where the bathroom is, so they don’t have an accident,” Will said. 

Chilton wrinkled up his nose in disgust. “Accidents? I’ll need to cover the floor in plastic.”

 _Good._ Will thought. _That way you won’t leave much to clean up when I beat you to a pulp._ “I don’t see a bed in here. Or toys.”

“Toys? If you’re looking for toys, I’ve got a closet full of them downstairs.” This, with a wink.

_Don’t punch him in the face. Don’t punch him in the face._

“Mind if I check back in on her later this week? To see how she’s getting along,” Will said, already generating a shopping list in his head: catnip mice, scratching posts, crinkly mylar balls, treats.

“By all means, I’ll take any opportunity to have you in my home,” Chilton said. “The days get terribly dull around here, and you’re quite the distraction.”

“Speaking of distractions,” Will glanced at his watch. “I’m still on the clock. Make sure you get her a bed.”

“If you must go, at least let me walk you out.”

They left the cat’s room, Chilton closing the door behind him. As they descended the stairs, anger welled up in Will’s chest, threatening to transform into a stream of curse words. He thought of little Artemis in a room with the bare minimum, nothing to jump on, nothing to scratch, and an incompetent owner who had no interest in looking after her. Chilton’s sexually-charged passes frayed the last thread of his patience. _Keep it together, Will, until you can get her into a more comfortable living situation._

Chilton waved good-bye to Will from his front door. Will half-heartedly returned the gesture and headed back down the street to where he parked his mail truck, gnashing his teeth the entire way. 

When he unlocked the door and slid it open, a wall of scorching air blasted out from behind it. The steering wheel would be too hot to touch, and he needed to distract himself until he could drive off. A little reading, maybe, until both he and the truck cooled down. He reached inside and grabbed Dr. Sutcliffe’s subscription of _TattleCrime_ , the sweat from his hands staining the pages. Leaning up against the side of the truck, he skimmed past the featured article, _New Leads on Murdered Millionaire Mason Verger_ —he’d devoured that one earlier in the week when it went up on her website, wondering if she’d have more detail than the Post—and onto something else that piqued his interest.

> **Dr. Frederick Chilton, Puppet Master AND Pervert?**
> 
> by Freddie Lounds
> 
> Baltimore, MD.— In a bizarre twist of events, Abel Gideon, current inmate of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, is suing his psychological caretaker, Dr. Frederick Chilton, for damages following his incarceration and subsequent confession to the gruesome serial murders and maimings committed by the Maryland Mutilator, not two years ago. 
> 
> Gideon’s attorney, Micah Price, told _TattleCrime_ that Dr. Chilton had pushed the idea of confessing to the Mutilator’s crimes into Gideon’s head during his “therapy sessions.”
> 
> “Psychic driving is an unethical practice. These patients' mental states are not only vulnerable, but deeply prone to suggestion,” Price said.
> 
> While the confession appeared credible, given Gideon’s intimate knowledge of the crime scenes, and the absence of further Mutilator murders after his incarceration, it now appears that Gideon’s claim to fame may prove to have been false. Just as Maryland began to relax, the ugly business of the Mutilator receding in the rear-view mirror, a few days ago Mason Verger was found murdered “in an eerily similar fashion to the Mutilator’s previous victims,” per our source. Readers will recall that Mason Verger is the heir to the Verger Meat Packing Fortune.
> 
> Investigators are considering reviving their search for that notorious killer. If the Mutilator is still out there, then surely Verger’s blood is on Dr. Chilton’s hands.
> 
> But Abel Gideon is not the only one with complaints against Dr. Chilton. One anonymous source, an employee from Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, where Dr. Chilton boasts the title of Hospital Administrator, commented, “He’s a complete sleazebag. He hits on some of the orderlies and makes your life hell if you don’t go along with it. No one says anything about it because they’ve seen how petty his retaliation can get.”
> 
> A question this reporter would like to pose to our readers: is this really the kind of man you want holding the keys to some of the most dangerous criminals in the world?
> 
> Following the allegations, _TattleCrime_ reached out to Dr. Chilton at the BSHCI for comment, but were barred from entering the premises, and have received no response.  
>   
>   
> 

Will folded the paper, not caring for its creases, and shoved it back into its ripped-open plastic bag. Sutcliffe subscribed to every paper under the sun, trying to come off as broadly read, knowledgeable. Something he and Chilton had in common. Keeping up with the Joneses, or ‘keeping up with the Lecters,’ in this case.

While he climbed back in the truck—still sweltering, but a slight reprieve from the battering sun—he chewed over the information in the article. More than a sleaze, then. Those clammy hands of his held an actual capacity for harm. 

_Poor Artemis_. 

He pulled over to the curb when he reached the house on the corner of Stratford and Forest Lane. The bright spot on his route, but then, he’d known and loved the residents of this particular home for years before they’d moved here. 

Alana stood outside when he got there, already peeking into the mailbox. 

“Running a little late, Graham?” she asked, an eyebrow raised in her typical teasing gesture. 

“Held up by Frederick,” he grumbled, hopping out the side door. 

“Got anything for me?” She asked.

“ _You_ got anything for _me_?” he countered, laughing. She waved him over and with a friendly clap of her hand on the middle of his back—and then a subtle wipe of her palm down the side of her pencil skirt— and led him down the walkway toward the house. 

“We’re having Japanese for lunch today,” Alana said.

Will followed along, her and Margot’s mail in hand, and passed through the now-familiar double doors at the front of their little mansion. 

Margot met them at the table, a broad smile on her face when she saw him. “Will,” she said, standing. “How nice to see you.” As though their mid-afternoon lunch break hadn’t become a regular occurrence. 

He tipped his head in her direction. “Margot. I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Oh, Mason?” she said, pleasure curling in her voice. “A terrible tragedy for someone, I’m sure.”

He laughed at that. 

“It is a relief,” Alana murmured. 

“For our mental and financial well-being. No need to leave the family after all.” A topic that had come up off and on over the years of their friendship, but with increasing frequency and urgency over the last few months. They’d had enough; the last time they’d spoken about it with Will, they’d already begun planning for the fallout of their separation from the Verger name. “It couldn’t have happened at a better time.”

“What happened?” he asked, taking his usual seat. “Newspapers are pretty sparse on detail.” 

TattleCrime, however, had plenty of speculation on the subject since the incident. Baseless accusations implicating Alana and Margot in Mason’s death in one sentence, then thanking them for ridding the world of him and his summer camps in the next. And then, clinching it with: “No need to fear for Baltimore’s economic health, Readers, the ruthless Verger Meatpacking Dynasty will carry on. Before the blood from the thousands of slaughtered pigs had a chance to dry, Alana Bloom reportedly fell pregnant, with sources pointing towards Mason himself as the alleged father. The product of an incestuous pedophile and his enabling psychiatrist? This reporter shudders to think of what that childhood will look like.”

 _As if Alana would let Mason under the same roof as her_ , Will had thought when reading the article.

Across from him now, she sat pale-faced and weary. He gave him a weak little smile when their eyes met. She might be happy on Margot’s account, but the details didn’t bring her any joy. 

Margot, however, appeared to revel in them. “Can you imagine?” She sighed happily. “The security detail found him on the kitchen counter, impaled and trussed up with an apple in his mouth. Like a spit-roasted pig.” 

“He did love his porkers,” Will murmured, his belly coiling with satisfaction, at both that delicious cucumber and the sensation of justice served. Aside from the slander, Freddie’s articles about Mason lacked her characteristic level of specificity. No such details on the nature of the corpse. But she waxed poetic about the prospect of a Verger baby— 

“Is something wrong, Will?” Alana asked. “You look upset.”

He sighed. “I read Freddie’s article about Mason the other day. I could kill her.”

“Well,” Alana said. She and Margot exchanged a look; Will’s heart stuttered in his chest.

 _No way._

“She certainly has her sources,” Margot murmured. “Though of course her assertions are not _quite_ accurate.”

Warmth bubbled up in Will’s chest. “Not _quite_ accurate.”

“What _is_ true is that Mason had apparently been indulging in some auto-rectal stimulation, and storing the, er, _byproduct_ ,” this from Alana, humor twinkling in her eyes though her nose wrinkled in disgust.

Will sucked in a breath, a smile cracking on his lips. “Are you—?”

“Proud future mothers to a Verger baby?” Margot asked, beaming at the rosy-cheeked Alana, who looked back at her with hearts in her eyes. “You can be the second to congratulate us.”

“The _second_? Who’s the first?”

Alana and Margot looked at each other then back at Will. Alana broke the news, “I told Hannibal our plans. He’s been a big support to us during these times, and I wanted to be sure I’d have someone I can trust to cover my consultancy at the FBI.”

In the end Will’s pleasure on behalf of his friends eclipsed his disdain for Hannibal. “Well,” he said, sitting back in his chair. Satisfaction for their obvious happiness warmed his chest _._ “Congratulations.”

Now that he knew, Alana’s abstaining from the sushi course made sense. _Not good for the baby._ They talked for a while about their hopes for the future of their family, the trials associated with artificial insemination, the injustice of not being allowed to share their happiness with the world, all due to the stipulations of Verger Sr.’s Last Will and Testament. But despite their complaints, the two shined with joy. Will absorbed it, let it act as a balm after his own trials earlier this morning. 

“Enough about us,” Alana said, as they made their way into dessert. “ _You’ve_ been quite the hot topic around the neighborhood.” 

“Me?” he asked, feigning innocence. 

Margot peered over her glass of sherry at him, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Up to your old tricks again, Will?”

“You know what they say about that,” he answered, eliciting a tired groan from Alana. “Who’s complaining?”

Margot snorted. “Who isn’t? You were practically the star of Hannibal’s canapé party, and you weren’t even there.”

It took real effort to suppress the frown at _that_ gentleman’s name popping up in the conversation again. “Doctor Lecter has made his dissatisfaction plain enough to me already.”

“Will, you should tone it down,” Alana said. “You’re dealing with a different kind of animal here. The busybodies in this neighborhood love to complain. They have nothing better to do. You’re risking your job.”

“You should listen to her,” Margot agreed, eyes still sparkling with mirth. “The other day, Kade Prunell complained about the tint of the glass on our porch sconces. _The tint on the sconces_. Can you believe that?”

“I can,” Will said, all too familiar with Kade’s nitpicking. “Don’t worry, I’ll be more careful.” 

Alana frowned, catching the difference between her warning and his promise. Whatever other concerns she may have about Will’s misbehavior she shelved in favor of dipping her spoon back into her green tea shaved ice. “Something does bother me though. About this whole thing with Mason.”

Margot turned her attention on her wife, head tilted in interest. 

“There is one detail that the FBI has kept away from the press. For a good reason,” Alana began. “While looking for evidence, the police found a piece of paper on Mason’s desk. No bigger than a playing card. It had an illustration of a stag on it.”

Will shifted in his seat. 

“That was the Maryland Mutilator’s M.O.” she continued. “Mailing a stag calling card to their victims before killing them.”

“They caught him though,” Margot chimed in, her own spoon settled on the side of her bowl, no pretense of eating during this conversation. “Abel Gideon confessed to every single murder.”

“He’s recanted his confession,” Will said. “I saw it in today’s papers. He claims Chilton pushed the idea on him.”

“That’s news to me,” Margot said. “I figured whoever sent Mason the calling card was a copycat. If this information gets leaked, the entire DC Metro area will be thrown in a tizzy.”

“Freddie Lounds seems to have already pinned this on the Mutilator, but a copycat isn’t a bad theory,” Will mused. “The Mutilator Murders were still considered a high profile case even before Gideon recanted. Anyone looking to get their fifteen minutes may feel inclined to cash in on it.”

Alana sighed, pushed her unfinished dessert away, and leaned back in her chair. “But what if Gideon is telling the truth? Maybe he’s not the Mutilator, and there are _two_ notorious serial killers running rampant? While I’m _pregnant_.”

Will stood up. He rounded the table and placed a reassuring hand on Alana’s shoulder. Her own hand reached up and clasped over his.

“ _If_ the Mutilator is still out there, I don’t think you two have anything to worry about.” Will said, removing his hand and then collecting Alana’s half-empty bowl to take back to the kitchen. “He only seems to kill people who deserve it.”

  
  


Will barely made it through the front door before his pack of dogs, in their eagerness to greet him, almost toppled him over. 

“Did you miss me?” Will cooed over the commotion. The dogs sat on their hindquarters and wagged their tails in enthusiastic answer. He slung his bag off his shoulder and onto the floor by the door, and then reached out to pat their heads one by one, a ritual performed every night when he got home. But as he finished this loving routine, tugging on a final ear, he found himself reaching for another that wasn’t there. _It’s not right,_ he sighed. _Something’s missing._ A small, fuzzy, yellow-eyed something.

He shook his head. “Seven dogs is enough,” he grumbled, though the words lacked conviction to his own ears. “Buster has a hard enough time with new dogs as it is,” he reminded himself. “He’d kill a cat.”

But as he went about his post-work ablutions—a long, steaming shower, a TV dinner, and a glass of whiskey on his porch while the dogs romped outside—the idea nagged at him. A warm, purring little body on his lap would be the perfect addition to this cozy routine.

“You wouldn’t even consider it, if it weren’t for Chilton,” he told himself, watching the red light of the sunset refract through the glass and the spirits within it. “And you wouldn’t be thinking about Chilton if it weren’t for Mason.”

He frowned. 

Buster ran up with his favorite tennis ball—a discolored, tatty, soggy thing—and dropped it at Will’s feet. Will leaned over and tossed the ball back out into the yard, much to Buster’s delight, though too distracted to share in his joy. 

Of all the various kinds of monsters Will encountered, none deserved his justice as much as Mason had. Two years ago, when Gideon confessed to the Maryland Mutilator’s misdeeds, Will took it as a sign that he ought to put an end to his extracurricular activities. But not long after that, he experienced the displeasure of meeting Mason for the first time, despite his long friendship with Margot and Alana, and knew that eventually the time to act would come. 

After he changed routes, he put off taking care of Mason for seven months. Seven excruciating months. Every day, Will woke knowing that out there in the world, Mason Verger, blight on humanity, lived. He kept himself in check knowing that Alana and Margot would be rendered penniless if Mason were to die, but when they made it clear that they’d worked past that concern, that they would give up financial security, that they could no longer tolerate Mason living...

Will found he couldn’t either. So he changed that. 

_That was a good day_. 

In the end, Mason squealed the same way his porkers did. Chilton, though certainly a thorn in _Will’s_ side, and even considering his treatment of that sweet kitten, didn’t quite live up to the bar of monstrosity that Mason set. 

But, realistically, who would?

“He might not be _evil_ ,” Will murmured, taking another sip of his drink, “but he is _reprehensible_.” He might not merit murder, but he definitely needed dealing with. 

Someone else who needed dealing with: Hannibal Lecter. He hadn’t done anything actionable yet, but he would. Will knew his type. Eventually he’d show his cards. Reveal himself as the kind of monster that Will saw lurking behind that perfect facade. Will could hardly wait for that moment, to revel in it, in finding the justification for his design.

Of course, that could present a logistical problem. Two murders in the same neighborhood would be too much. He’d never been questioned in association with his previous work—who would think to suspect the mailman, even one as disruptive as him?—but it wouldn’t do to expose himself to the threat of inquiry.

So should he take care of Chilton before he could cause any more damage, or wait until Hannibal Lecter tipped his hand?

“No,” he argued with himself as he got to his feet. “No matter how tempting, neither one is a foregone conclusion.”

He whistled for the dogs, following them into the house. The sun finished setting, and a couple of moths flit around the porch light, casting long shadows through the front window. 

Gnawing on the inside of his cheek for a moment, his thoughts strayed back to his two prospects, while his fingers itched to comb through minky black fur, to feel those little milk teeth nip at him in gentle play. 

“Neither one,” he murmured as he shut off the porch light, and everything turned to darkness.

  
  
~✉~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham does:
> 
>   1. What he wants
>   2. ~~Who he wants~~
>   3. When he wants
> 

> 
> Things have a tendency to escalate quickly where Will Graham is involved. This sweet cinnamon roll that must be protected has a habit of getting himself in trouble. Often on purpose. What hijinks will ensue????   
>  Also thank you so much for the warm reception to the first chapter! We were delighted to see that someone aside from us out there thought this story was worth their time. 
> 
> Join us on Friday, 9/11 to watch as these petty bitches _Ramp. Shit. Up._  
> 


	3. Playing Detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 20-minute read.  
> If you're not in the know, DMV refers to the DC Maryland Virginia metro area, rather than the Department of Motor Vehicles, Hannibal's second least-favored governmental service.

~✉~ **  
**

**The Postman’s Knock**

Chapter Three

Playing Detective.

~✉~

Will’s day began as usual, but with one minor disruption. He clocked in, greeted his coworkers, and settled in to sort mail into white totes in preparation for delivery, when one of the clerks brought to his attention that word had come through the grapevine of a complaint lodged against him.

“Who’s complaining?” Will asked, eyes up for a second before returning to the piles of mail on his worktable. Of the roster of people with grievances against him, Dr. Hannibal Lecter seemed the most likely culprit, following through on his threat to call one in to the postmaster earlier in the week. 

“Someone named Freddie Chimpline,” Bob, the clerk grumbled. “Something about you trying to steal his cat? And then breaking into his house?”

Will stopped himself from laughing. Odd that of all the passive-aggressive things Will had done to Chilton’s mail, Chilton chose to complain about _that_ , when he had capitalized on the opportunity to sexually harass him the entire time.

It made no sense. Chilton wouldn’t complain. He had nothing to _gain_ from complaining, not when he wanted to see more of Will than Will felt comfortable with.

So who _would_ benefit from this? Who witnessed Will going into Chilton’s house?

“A misunderstanding,” Will improvised. “A resident on my route had a kitten in his trunk. It was hot outside, had to act fast.”

“Jesus, what?” Bob, for all of his gruff exterior, fit the phrase ‘cat man’ through and through. 

“I couldn’t help myself, just scooped the baby out and took her in the house for some water and air conditioning.”

That play for sympathy worked magic. After five minutes of bitching and complaining about human cruelty and the injustices committed against “our feline overlords,” Bob clapped Will on the back and went on his way, satisfied. 

Will had to explain the event once more to his supervisor before he could sneak out to run his deliveries for the day, grateful that people tended to be lenient when animals were involved. But one peculiarity in that conversation perturbed him: The caller made a point of asking, first, if mail carriers were required to carry personalized business cards. When informed that they weren’t required to, the caller asked for Will’s last name.

 _Definitely_ not Chilton, then. _Definitely Hannibal Lecter._

But to cover his bases, he would ask Frederick. 

It felt a little perverse to be the one seeking Chilton out for a conversation, for once, but the man made it easy. He sat on his front porch, watching as Will pulled up in front of his house. _Waiting for me?_

“How’s Artemis?” Will asked, leaning over into the back of the truck to grab a small parcel in an inconspicuous black box with a _discreet_ shipping label. Ah. Chilton wouldn’t want _that_ sitting on the curb for anyone to see. Something new for—Will suppressed a shudder—Chilton’s _toy room_ downstairs. 

“ _Darwinia_ is fine,” Chilton sniffed, taking a tentative step closer to the curb. 

A part of him wanted to ask if he couldn’t shorten that atrocious name to Winnie, for Will’s peace of mind, but he didn’t want to linger. “Look. I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said. _Toss in a Frederick, or no?_ He debated briefly, knowing the man would _love_ hearing his name from Will’s lips. In the end, he decided to save that little gift for a special conversation. “If I overstepped, you should’ve talked to me about it instead of complaining to my boss. I won’t do it again.”

Chilton blinked, his smarmy smile falling off his face, brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t follow. I haven’t made any complaints.”

Will’s initial instincts were right. Of course he wasn’t the caller.

Unless Prurnell or Sutcliffe had decided to get creative—highly unlikely, as neither of them had a creative bone in their bodies—that would lay the fault for this little slight at Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s door. 

But being proven correct did nothing to pacify him. The discovery still put a stomp in his step as he made his way to his next stop along the rest of the route. 

If Dr. Lecter had followed through on his promise to call the postmaster, his goal had clearly not been to complain, but to collect information on Will. Fine. So he wanted to engage in a little internet stalking. He would only find disappointment. Online, Will Graham did not exist. He made a habit of searching himself and erasing any identifiable information. No Facebook profiles to share funny dog videos with estranged family members, no LinkedIn to tout his skills and experience in a clamber to further himself in the rat race. If anyone asked why, he had a canned joke about being far too old to join social media. Not to mention the vast, _vast_ number of other ‘Will Graham’s that _did_ exist on the internet. Dr. Lecter could wade through them all day and never find him.

One hand rummaged around in his satchel for his towel. As Will mopped the sweat collecting at the base of his neck, he put the thought out of his mind. The doctor had overstepped a boundary, sure. But that transgression paled in the face of Frederick’s eager eyes and frequent insinuations. Yeah. He had more pressing matters to address.

After dropping off packages to Alana and Margot, Will hopped back into the mail truck. He kicked his feet up and pulled out Sutcliffe’s TattleCrime subscription.

> **Maryland Mutilator, Ripping Off the Ripper? NEW DETAILS—LEAKED!**
> 
> by Freddie Lounds
> 
> Baltimore, M.D.— With news of Mason Verger’s death still fresh, people have begun to speculate about the Ripper’s involvement. Well readers, let me put those fears to rest.
> 
> While it is clear that the Ripper has inspired the Mutilator with his penchant for theatricality, the level of taste in this display is not up to par. Leaving Mason Verger impaled on a steel rod with a shiny red apple in his mouth like one of his famous pigs? Too on the nose for the Chesapeake Ripper, whose preferences skew toward obscure allegories. I imagine the Ripper is shriveling with embarrassment at having such a cliché tableau associated with his name.
> 
> Then again, the Ripper has been quiet for so long— maybe he has simply lost his touch?
> 
> Although I may have calmed your fears about the Ripper’s return, the DMV can sleep easily knowing _two_ serial killers have managed to slip by famed FBI Special Agent Jack Crawford. 

Will read through the rest of the article, not realizing how his clutch on Sutcliffe’s paper tightened until the time came to return it to its bag; so creased and crumpled beneath his fingers, it would never lay flat again. He’d known it would happen eventually. Comparisons between the Mutilator and the Ripper were inevitable. Two active and violent serial killers within a 300 mile radius, both of whom put their victims on display? Any layman could point at the similarities. 

But the Mutilator had never had artistic aspirations in his displays. While the Ripper’s gruesome aesthetic and baroque staging had something in it to admire, Will’s work served a far more utilitarian purpose. Freddie Lounds, of course, would not be able to recognize that. Or, if she did, she chose to ignore the fact in favor of writing some ridiculous click-bait article for the ad revenue. 

_More likely the latter._

And a miracle that she still sold print editions, in this day and age.

Will jammed the issue of TattleCrime, bagless, into Sutcliffe’s mailbox, along with a letter from a legal firm, and one from the medical board. _Someone’s in trouble._ He mulled over the article all day, even during idle chitchat with the residents, even when Fiona ran up to greet him, running through her tricks and begging for a treat.

“Sooner or later,” he decided as he put the truck in gear at the end of the day, “it’ll be a question of who will get to Freddie first. The Mutilator or the Ripper.”

The prospect of her imminent end should have placed a coda on any further troubling thoughts for the day, but when Will got home, his dogs didn’t greet him with their usual enthusiasm. They were excited enough, of course, but they didn’t corral him into the kitchen as usual, nosing at his hands in pleas for their dinner. 

Will took off his glasses, tucked them into his shirt-front pocket and padded back to the front door. No signs of forced entry that he could see; the keyhole had scratches all around it already anyway, the markings would make it difficult to tell of any additional marks from a lock pick. Eyes sharp and attention focused, he prowled through the house, looking for signs of any disturbance. 

He found it, eventually. 

Not a speck of dust displaced anywhere, but on his desk by the far window, the fly he’d started and abandoned last winter, left unfinished in the vise, had been tied off. If his dogs had behaved as normal, he wouldn’t have noticed it—maybe not for months. 

His stomach churned as he sat down, pulling the fly free and twirling it between his fingers. The red feathers fluttered in a garish display, the sharp point on the hook skimmed the side of his index finger. 

“Not a ghost then,” he murmured. The fly went with him as he moved to the sideboard and poured himself a double of whiskey. 

Not a ghost. Then who? If not for Freddie’s article, his first thought would have leaned toward the man that had called his work asking after him. Ostensibly, Hannibal Lecter. 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter, expert lock-picker? Amateur fly-fishing enthusiast? It didn’t sit quite right.

_But maybe..._

He pulled his phone from his pocket and navigated to the TattleCrime website, though he preferred to avoid it as a matter of principle. Fewer clicks, less revenue for her. But his extracurricular activities forced him to keep up on the drivel she published—hence his borrowing of Sutcliffe’s subscription.

There. _Maryland Mutilator, Ripping Off the Ripper?_ Published on the website the night before, at 7PM. 

Less than twenty-four hours.

Will shut his screen off and threw back a mouthful of Jim Beam. Even the taste of smoke and the warmth trailing behind it couldn’t distract him from his ruminations. 

If the Chesapeake Ripper had been the one to break into his house, feed his dogs, and finish his fly, the man must either work _very_ fast, or have been keeping tabs on Will for a while.

A worrying prospect, but one that didn’t ring true either. The Mutilator and the Ripper didn’t share the same hunting grounds as a general rule, and from what Will had gathered about the Ripper, he’d be intelligent enough to see through Freddie Lounds’ baiting. He wouldn’t go after Will. He would go after _her_.

“Then again…” If Hannibal Lecter had been the one to visit, he must also work quite fast. 

Buster jumped onto the couch and curled up beside him. He reached to scratch behind a white ear, and found himself wishing for Artemis’ fluffy black belly to tickle next. With a sigh, he tipped his head back against the couch and returned to the matter at hand. 

Outside the window, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky’s brilliant orange dimmed to a sulky, moody lavender.

He’d noticed Hannibal’s hands and their dexterity. Picking a lock, tying a fly... Neither task would be beyond him. If Will took a moment to peek behind the man’s veneer of perfection, it didn’t seem so far-fetched. He’d always sensed something off about the man. 

Still. Calling his work to find out his name, he could understand. But what would motivate Hannibal Lecter to break into his house? _To feed my dogs?_

Well. 

“There’s an easy way to answer that question,” he announced into the oncoming dark. 

Five days later, he parked his truck on Stratford a good three hours earlier than usual, and right behind the van belonging to the maid service that sent Hannibal Lecter their invoices once a month. He lifted a heavy package—one he’d held back for the last two days, just for this—from the back of the truck and brought it to the front door. 

When he rang the bell, the door opened to reveal a tiny middle-aged lady donning latex gloves and a dust cloth. Greying hair and kind eyes, but worry lines at their corners.

“Good morning,” Will said, beaming. Though not ignorant of the fact that it had an effect on people, he rarely thought about his appearance. “Is Doctor Lecter home?”

“Good morning,” The woman responded, color rushing to her cheeks. “The Doctor’s not home. Try again in a few hours?”

Will let his smile falter. “Oh, I see. He told me he was expecting this— it’s a pretty expensive appliance, I guess? And I offered to bring it into the kitchen to save him the trouble. But I guess, if he’s not here, I’ll leave it on the porch.” He sighed, a little theatricality for her benefit. “Thanks. Um, and have a great day.”

“Wait,” she said as Will moved to leave. “Give it to me, I can bring it in for you.”

“I appreciate the thought, Ma’am, but this thing is too heavy. I wouldn’t sleep if you hurt yourself.”

Will held his breath as she looked past him to his mail truck. If she denied him entry, he would have to find another way in. Something less legal. Her gaze turned back onto him, surveying his uniform, still waffling for a moment. At last, she stepped aside.

“The Doctor is so lucky to have a considerate man like you delivering his mail, going above and beyond,” she beamed.

“It’s really nothing,” Will said, walking past her and into the foyer. 

Dr. Lecter’s keen sense for decorating hadn’t escaped his notice, in the brief glimpses of the interior he caught through the window when he passed, but never imagined this caliber of taste. His attention first caught on the ornate fireplace, kept in functioning order, no doubt. As he entered the room, he watched his footfalls, avoiding the blue and gold rug that stretched across the marble floor. Not out of any sense of respect to Dr. Lecter’s possessions, but out of a desire to avoid making more work for the cleaners.

“I’d hate to waste any more of your time. I can find my way to the kitchen, unless you would prefer to accompany me…?”

“Oh, go ahead. It’s just down the hall. Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Will said, and meant it.

He veered off to the right through an arched doorway. Will would have to make quick and decisive actions. Under usual circumstances, he wouldn’t consider risking everything for a hunch, but the fact remained that Will’s home and his dogs had been intruded upon. He had to rule out either the Ripper or Dr. Lecter, and only one of those options was within Will’s reach. 

Will detoured into the dining room. Not one of the inviting, airy spaces one would find in an edition of _Better Homes and Gardens_ ; more a suffocating mix of classicism and modernism, an eclectic nightmare unimpeded by budget. Another fireplace, with Leda and the Swan hung above it, and opposite from that, a living wall, with kitchen herbs and aromatics growing, as well as decorative plants. Despite the oddities, Will doubted that he would find any of his answers in a room built for entertaining others. He decided to move on.

Nothing of note in the hallways. Both time and Will’s resolve dwindled with each room he passed, all ornately staged. For public consumption. He couldn’t risk poking around on the second floor with the housekeepers still at work. He cursed under his breath. 

Will entered the kitchen and set the package down on one of the counters. The room lacked the aesthetic of the rest of the house, a cold sterility reminiscent of a surgery suite rather than the heart of the home. And yet, Will could see that Dr. Lecter’s heart truly beat here. Despite its impersonal cleanliness, something about the room resonated with the man’s energy.

This space had been designed with efficiency and economy of movement in mind; function before form. If Hannibal’s heart beat in this room, then that made him the kind of man who would _not_ leave his skeletons out for anyone to find. 

Resigning himself to come back later for a more thorough search, Will turned to go. Mid-pivot, he caught sight of a conspicuously inconspicuous herringbone-patterned door. Strange. 

A month or so ago, Will found a half-sealed envelope from Morton’s Cleaning Specialists among the stack of deliverables addressed to the Lecter house. Overcome by a morbid curiosity to see _how much_ the man spent on having that behemoth of a home cleaned, he had pried the rest of the flap open and made a study of the invoice. A _very_ detailed document, containing such gems as: 

“Master Bathroom: Taurus bathtub, apply wax”—did people actually use their bathtubs, and often enough to want to wax them? 

and 

“Kitchen: Silver spoon polishing x16”. 

The rooms were listed in sequence, each itemization down to the smaller details of the specific care and attention required. Will would expect no less from Dr. Lecter, uptight, controlling asshole that he’d revealed himself to be. 

But nowhere did the invoice mention a room off the kitchen. 

Curiosity piqued, Will stepped away from the counter and headed straight for that herringbone door. Unlocked. The door swung open to the sight of an industrial grade meat grinder centered on the counter against the opposite wall. Another fridge, this one with a glass front, and an excessive wine-rack wall filled the remainder of the room. Beside the grinder, all kinds of bits and bobs littered the counter in what appeared to be a charming disarray, though something about the exactness of the angles and distances between them made the hairs on the back of Will’s neck rise up. A house without disorder, uncomfortably opulent, decorated to intimidate rather than welcome, did not have room in it for this kind of chaos. 

This kind of _very exact_ chaos.

Like the dust on Will’s bookshelf, this arrangement served a purpose. A curious hand might pick up one of those toppled containers to see what they hid inside. Or uncap the decanter to sniff the wine that had been poured out into it. Dr. Hannibal Lecter would come back into his pantry, see the smudges on the glass or the change in angle on the bottle, and know he’d had an uninvited visitor. 

Will untucked the front of his shirt— not sweat-laden, though definitely rumpled—and with the fabric covering his hand, stepped into the room. Overcome by the urge to flout the good doctor, he uncapped the decanter with his pseudo-glove and took a deep whiff of that dark red wine. 

A cabernet, maybe? 

Once he wiped off and replaced the stopper, he turned his attention elsewhere in the room. This elaborate trap on the counter had been put in place to protect _something_ from discovery. He pulled a few bottles from the wine wall and returned them carefully after checking for hidden mechanisms on the rack and the wall around it. No secret door. A let down.

The fridge…?

Will padded over, sticking close to the walls, conscious that though he may be alone _here_ , there were others moving about the house. He popped open the fridge door, again with a covered hand, and took in its contents. A few glass containers with spices, a bowl full of fruit, several unmarked resealable beer bottles. The sight of the beer tempted him more than the wine, but he bypassed them when he noticed the vacuum-sealed baggies of meat in the back. 

Nothing that would usually draw his eye, except that the contents were not the geometric shapes of butcher cuts, but the organic shapes of offal. 

_The man has the weirdest taste,_ he mused, moving the pair of kidneys on top of the stack out of the way so he could examine what lay beneath.

Heart. 

Pig heart, if the label were to be believed.

Will’s own, beating steadily and quietly before, now picked up the pace, the strength of each contraction increasing until it pounded against his ribs. 

“But that’s not a pig heart,” he whispered into the quiet. 

_It’s a_ human _heart_. He’d carved out his fair share of them; he should know. 

His left foot moved backward, striking a floorboard in the center of the room, and eliciting a hollow _thunk_ with the impact. His eyes darted to the floor, then back to the human heart in its vacuum baggie, alongside the herbs and home-brewed beer. His motions exaggeratedly slow now, he replaced the heart, and then the kidneys. He closed the refrigerator door and wiped down the handle once more to be safe.

A deep breath to center himself and he took another step into the middle of the room. Another hollow _thunk_. 

“Nope,” he said, pivoted on his foot, and ducked out of the pantry. He shut the door, wiped it down of any obvious signs of contact, and high-tailed it out of the house. 

_Nope, nope, nope_. 

The moment he seated himself back in his mail truck, he exhaled long and low. Forehead coming to rest on the steering wheel, he sucked in another deep breath and held it tight in his chest.

A human heart in the fridge. The empty space below the floorboards. 

A _murder basement_. And connected to the kitchen? _A human heart in the fridge._

“He’s eating them,” he whispered, the buzzing of cicadas outdoors no more than static in his ears, drowned out by the sound of this revelation. 

His own mystery visitor happened to be Hannibal Lecter, after all. 

Just so happened that Hannibal Lecter was also the Chesapeake Ripper. 

“ _Fuck_.”

“Fuck you, Freddie,” Will said aloud to nobody at all as he sorted through Sutcliffe’s mail, only a few days later. He considered for a moment whether or not to toss her garbage rag of a tabloid into the trash and not deliver it to Sutcliffe at all, but aside from satisfying his pettiness, what would that accomplish?

Her bullshit article—one of many in a long tradition of bullshit articles—had made his life incomparably more difficult. Now, _knowing what he knew_ , he had to figure out a way to de-escalate the little Cold War between him and Dr. Chesapeake Ripper. 

Will could manage subtlety, but preferred blunter instruments. Hannibal Lecter would see through any obvious ploys in a snap, though, so he’d have to exercise some finesse. 

An atrophied muscle.

A delicate balance now had to be observed. Provoke the man, risk provoking the monster and his godless appetite.

_You really know how to pick them._

He also had to face the startlingly real possibility that the Not-So-Good Doctor would see the package Will placed on his counter and put two and two together. Will reprimanded himself. If he had even the slightest inkling that Dr. Lecter was not some white-collar embezzler or a covert drug dealer, but a bonafide serial killer, he would never have brought something so concrete as a large package to leave in the kitchen, with the cleaning staff as witnesses. He would have found another way in. When he went looking for the proverbial skeletons in Dr. Lecter’s closet, he didn’t expect to find actual skeletons—or the flesh off their bones, anyway. 

A mistake. 

One that Will may not live to repeat should Hannibal Lecter catch on before Will could buy himself some time to make a move. But what move to make? No matter what, he would have to dial it back a little. 

_Dial it back a little. And then what?_

He _could_ switch up his route and try his best to disappear, pretending he’d never seen anything at all, but it would be immoral to the Ripper’s victims to play at ignorance. And he had no qualms about killing Dr. Lecter, either, but as he hadn’t included hunting a prolific killer in his five-year plan, he didn’t exactly know where to start.

_How does one hunt something that is hunting you back?_

In the end, Will crumpled up Sutcliffe’s edition of TattleCrime and tossed it aside. An act of goodwill on his part towards that doctor. With everything happening in the world, Dr. Sutcliffe should really be spending his energy on anything _other_ than reading such trash. Like dealing with that malpractice suit, or whatever it was.

 _Besides_ , Will thought as he reached into his satchel. He pulled out a small card, holding it up near the truck window, the sunlight sucked into the dark ink. _I have a hunch that TattleCrime won’t be running for much longer_.

  
  


~✉~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, shit is escalating. Quickly. 
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated, from the bottom of our withered, rotting hearts.  
> Please join us on 9/25 for the next update!


	4. Moonlighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 28 minute read.  
> Chapter-Specific TW/CW: Mild torture of a minor character, Minor character death (off-screen), Brief mention of miscarriage

  
  


~✉~ **  
The Postman’s Knock**

Chapter Four

Moonlighting.

~✉~

In retrospect, the signs were there. 

When the cleaning service called as usual to report the completion of their work, Clementine had been effusive in her praise over the delivery man. “So cute,” she gushed, “and thoughtful too. Not like most careless young men these days.” 

At the time, he paid the comment little mind. Granted, he now associated ‘delivery man’ rather strongly with a certain postal worker. Will _Graham_ as he came to find out. But the dissonance between the idea of a ‘thoughtful young man,’ and the reality of Will, a ‘shameless menace,’ prevented Hannibal from making the connection. 

_At the time_ , he assumed Clementine had brought the package into the kitchen herself, despite its weight. While the shipping label marked the purchase as an appliance, she would not know that it referred to the surgical, rather than culinary, variety. Now that he knew better, he planned to call her supervisors regarding improving their employee training as far as home security.

He may owe her a personal call, now, too. 

That it took him over a week to connect the dots, however, angered him more than anything else. 

Even ignoring Clementine’s gross neglect and irresponsibility, the signs _were there_. The premature delivery of the mail on that day and that day alone. The avoidance and de-escalation that followed. His neighbors, he discovered, continued to receive the close attention for which Will Graham had become notorious; Hannibal’s treatment alone had changed. 

This alteration pleased him, at first. A subtle improvement in Will’s manners. A reduction in pranks pulled, and a softening in their nature. No longer did he find his packages caught in downspouts on days where it rained. No longer were his larger envelopes folded in half to fit the mailbox, or his newspaper hidden away like an Easter Egg in the hedgerow.

But Hannibal, unlike the proverbial frog in the heating pot, noted the change. And no matter how enjoyable the mitigation in harassment, he understood that this change in Will Graham served a purpose. 

The latest invoice from Morton’s jogged his memory about Clementine’s comment, and the remaining pieces fell into place. 

_Will Graham_ , Hannibal mused, rotating his scalpel in his hands as he sat at his office desk. _What could you have been looking for in my house_? He had noticed nothing amiss in the pantry when he pulled his ingredients for dinner in the days that followed.

So what did Will think he had found to warrant the change in behavior? He could not have entered the basement—not with the security measures in place there. The only triggers for his new attitude would be the contents of the fridge where he kept the offal and the beer. 

But Will had not taken a beer bottle—not that he would know its secret ingredient, should he taste it. And even if he saw the offal, many guests, even those with medical training, had seen the contents of those vacuum bags and not come to the correct conclusion. No. His veneer of morality and his love of mannerliness, combined with his reputation for charitable deeds and civility, granted him an invisible armor that repelled suspicion. 

So how had Will Graham, without a day’s education in medicine, and no reason to question Hannibal’s humanity, however much he may despise him, seen through that glamor?

How many dots had he managed to connect?

Hannibal looked up at the mezzanine, its soft lighting casting a pleasant, warm glow on its multicolored volumes. He had seen a few of the same titles on Will’s shelves when he explored the neat, though dusty, confines of his cozy house in Wolf Trap. Not merely the pop-science titles either; but some of the denser publications in Psychology, criminology, and pathology. The Postal Service may require nothing more than a high school diploma and a passing grade for their exam, but Will Graham had educated himself far beyond those most basic of requirements. 

He thanked Freddie, if only for a moment, for inspiring the bit of impetuosity that had resulted in his self-led tour of Will’s home.

No longer a mere shameless menace, Will Graham had become something of a concern.

“Not a concern, precisely,” Hannibal decided as he tucked Morton’s invoice into his briefcase and shut off his desk lamp. A puzzle, rather. 

A mystery. 

When the mail truck pulled up the next day, Hannibal waited for Will under the pretense of spreading mulch around his new mailbox. He had tried to salvage the one that Will dented with his truck, but to no avail. The metal remained misshapen where he attempted to hammer it out with a mallet. An eyesore. He had no choice but to replace it.

“Good afternoon, Will,” Hannibal said, putting down the bag of mulch and removing his yard work gloves.

“New mailbox, Doctor?” Will whistled. “Looks nice.”

“Thank you. Speaking of which, if I may ask, when can I expect to see reimbursement for the one you damaged?”

Will’s eyes focused on the box before flitting to Hannibal’s hands where they settled at his sides, then back. Evidently weighing a choice. Hannibal decided for him and extended an open hand. 

With some hesitation, Will took the cue and passed him the stack of letters. “I’ve already let my boss know about the damage, anything further is, uh, out of my control.”

Hannibal managed a smile. “I would appreciate a more specific time frame. While I don’t enjoy the prospect of raising this issue with your management, I will if I must.”

“I’m not trying to rip you off—” Will said, then changed tack. “Look. Requests like these take time, especially where money is involved. I’ll see what I can do. Not promising anything will come of it, but I’ll get you a reply.”

That phrase ‘rip you off’ triggered a sudden and visceral memory. Freddie Lounds’ headline flashed across his mind, and his fist clutched tighter around the gloves. What on Earth could she and her mindless readers see in that crime scene that called the Ripper to their minds? 

Margot would be unreachable now, out of town on business, but Alana might fill some of those blanks in for him.

“I understand,” Hannibal replied. “That’s all I ask.” He bade Will a good afternoon and then retired to the garage to return his work gloves and mulch to the cabinets along the back wall.

Best to call Alana before lunch.

Hannibal called, elegant fingers nudging aside the living room curtains to peek at Will. The mailman remained stationed in front of the house, pulling out a small handcart to continue his delivery on foot. Chilton next. Hannibal had long since memorized the route.

Alana picked up within two short rings.

“Hello, Hannibal. How are you?” she asked, breathy.

The curtain slipped from Hannibal’s fingers and back into place. “Alana. I called to hear your voice. It’s been so long that I fear I’m beginning to forget it.”

“I know, and I apologize. We’ve been running around getting ready for the baby, and with Mason…well, you know…”

Hannibal _did_ know. Once upon a time, before The Verger-Blooms ever met, Margot had found a willing young man to provide her with a child. She never passed the first trimester; Mason found out, engineered a car accident, and Margot had lost the baby. He reasoned this amplified the care and precaution they were taking with Alana’s pregnancy. That, and the birth of a Verger son would ensure their inheritance. No male heir, no money.

“You have a lot weighing on your mind. Should we unload some of it during lunch this afternoon? I’ve prepared bossam, a Korean dish. Boiled pork belly, shrimp, and radish wrapped in napa cabbage leaves.”

“I’d love to, Hannibal, I really would. But I am expecting some company.”

An explanation for the short-winded greeting. “Then perhaps my next call should be to Margot.”

Alana laughed, a pleasant, light sound. “He’s not that kind of company.”

“He?”

A pause.

“I know you have your complaints about him…” 

_Will._

“…but he’s been such a great friend to our family.”

His burning desire to ask about the TattleCrime article waned as a new potential course of action unfurled within his mind.

“My relationship with our postman has no bearing on your friendship with him. You are free to keep company with whomever you like.”

“I appreciate that, Hannibal,” Alana said. “You know, I think there has been some kind of miscommunication between you. If you took a chance to get to know each other, you’d see you share some common interests.”

“And I am sure you are right,” Hannibal said. “Unfortunately, I doubt our mutual acquaintance has much interest in becoming friendly.”

“Well, maybe I can get him to lighten up.”

“I hope you succeed. My mail would thank you for it.” Hannibal drummed his fingers on the window ledge. “Well, you are expecting a guest. I won’t keep you. Let’s catch up another time. Take care, Alana.”

Hannibal checked the time on his cell phone before putting it away. Half-past eleven. He brushed aside the curtains again. The truck had not moved. He waited until Will returned with the empty cart and drove off, which took longer than expected, given how Will seemed desperate to avoid Chilton’s company. 

No matter. Time to move.

He gathered a few essential supplies into his Bentley and then drove towards the Verger-Bloom household. A walkable distance, but he needed to be quick. Hannibal parked on the street opposite to the mail truck, concealing any view of his car from the house in question. The swelling clouds in the sky above threatened rain; he expected most residents of Guilford to take their lunch indoors.

The coast was clear, as Hannibal predicted. Will, likely inside and well into his lunch with Alana by now, would notice nothing. He approached the truck and picked the lock on the rear doors with a tension wrench, unsurprised by its quick surrender. Another glance to check for passers by, and Hannibal slipped inside and shut the door.

It took a moment to adjust to the stagnant heat. Hannibal advanced to the front and settled in the driver’s seat. He flicked the exposed blade of the small fan on the dashboard, certain it did nothing to make the temperature more tolerable while running. Perhaps a cooling chair cover or a portable air conditioner would improve the conditions. A flash of navy blue tucked in the footwell caught his eye. Hannibal reached forward and tugged it out from its resting place. Will’s satchel. He opened the flap, expecting to sift through the layers of crumpled papers and discarded wrappers he’d seen when Will rummaged through it for his business card. Instead, he found it unexpectedly organized, the contents of the satchel visible all at once. 

_A little late in the year for spring cleaning._

One notebook, a pack of tissues, dog treats, a wallet, and a pocket knife. He flipped through the pages. Nondescript notes of his workday scribbled on each dated sheet, none of which seemed worth a closer look. He returned the notebook and pulled the wallet from the bag. A driver’s license, two credit cards, a business card for a pet sitter, three dollars in cash. Nothing of interest, until he seam-ripped open the lining of the cash pocket, inserted the small GPS tracker, and set about repairing the torn stitches with the sewing kit he’d brought from his car. 

GPS tracking technology continued to shrink, but it had yet to reach a size where one could call it ‘unnoticeable.’ 

But, much how Hannibal had not noticed Will’s intrusion earlier in the week, Will would not notice this one. He would not expect it. 

Satisfaction curling his lips, he tucked the wallet back into the bag and then returned the satchel to its place under the seat. 

As he moved to leave the vehicle, a soft crunch underfoot stopped him. He removed his shoe and discovered a colorful crumpled ball of paper. He reached down and unfolded it to reveal a page ripped from an issue of TattleCrime.

“That mailman—” Sutcliffe had whined, not a few days ago when Hannibal had gone to his house to drop off a misdelivered letter. “Always making mistakes. I haven’t seen my subscription of TattleCrime all week!”

And here lay the answer. At Will’s feet.

_Will, you’ve been very naughty._

But why? What did Will have against TattleCrime? Disposing of them to antagonize Sutcliffe could explain it, but why TattleCrime, rather than any of his other periodicals?

 _Revise the question,_ Hannibal thought. _What does the Mutilator have against them?_

He read the headline on the paper, another in a slew of exposés regarding Frederick’s running of the BSHCI, and smiled. Pleased with himself, Hannibal exited the mail truck. He may have just discovered the Mutilator’s next victim. 

Over the course of the following days, Will’s behavior bore this theory out. Though he had avoided Chilton as if he were some plague-ridden beast before, Hannibal noted a subtle increase in the time he spent at Chilton’s each day. So subtle that he doubted his other neighbors would notice, even if asked. Casing his house, then. Preparation for a kill. 

“But there we are at cross purposes,” he mused, yet again by his front window, waiting for Will to reemerge through Chilton’s door and wondering what kept him. The Maryland Mutilator had already taken one of Hannibal’s intended victims when he killed Mason Verger and stuffed an apple in his mouth. “I will not let you steal Frederick Chilton, too,” he announced into the empty room. 

At long last, Will appeared. Hannibal’s grip released the curtains, and he took a step away. 

“Ridiculous,” he admonished himself. Never in his career had he felt so compelled to act in haste. There were times, rare though they may be, where he opted to kill a victim the same day they met. He usually reserved such an accelerated course of action for the pigs who he knew would elude him otherwise. For those whose slights against him he could not allow to go unpunished. A toll booth worker; an impertinent driver. 

In these cases, the violence and its speedy execution had a proportionality to the insult. 

Nobody had ever tempted him to break his routine in this way before. And yet, the prospect had an appeal he could not deny.

It both infuriated and excited him. The FBI failed, time and time again, to present him with a challenge. With little effort, he outwitted and outmaneuvered them. But now, with the Maryland Mutilator paying _particular attention_ to someone he had already chosen for himself, he finally felt as though he’d found a worthy opponent.

‘You share some common interests,’ indeed.

He returned to work and met with his patients as scheduled, giving them no cause to doubt his interest. They would never suspect that one eye remained on the clock, while his mind played and replayed every interaction he’d ever had with Will Graham, attempting to puzzle him out. That his plans were not for their therapy, but for how he would spend the night cutting the Mutilator down.

He may even have ended his session with Mr. Froideveaux several minutes early, to get on with his evening. 

By the time he had double-checked the contents of his black duffel, changed into the appropriate attire for the night’s entertainment, and settled himself in a nondescript black sedan, the short hand had passed nine. He pulled up the tracking app on his phone, ready for the hour-long drive out to Wolf Trap. 

But to his consternation, Will Graham’s location pinged in far, far closer. A seedy motel, here. In Baltimore. 

A glance in the rear-view mirror revealed an empty spot in Chilton’s driveway, where the man’s red Jaguar ought to be. Disgust churned in Hannibal’s stomach as he considered the implication, followed by an overwhelming sense of urgency. 

_I will not let you steal Frederick Chilton, too_ , he repeated as he set his car in gear. 

For sixteen and a half minutes he chanted those words like a mantra, his grip on the steering wheel turning his knuckles white.

He took a late yellow light and scolded himself, easing off the accelerator, forcibly loosening his fingers, regulating his breathing. How long since he had last been this close to agitation?

The Moonlight Inn struck Hannibal as the sort of tawdry, repugnant motel someone of the Maryland Mutilator’s caliber would select for an illicit sexual encounter. Two wings of eight rooms over two stories surrounded a parking lot courtyard littered with cigarette butts and broken glass bottles. Ill-lit, with one flickering lamp post in the center of the lot and no surveillance equipment to speak of, no place could be more appropriate for the clientele that frequented this kind of business: the dregs of society. The air had the stale, sick scent of old smoke and cloying perfume that matched the lewd, performative noises coming from the room closest to where Hannibal parked his car.

He stepped out into the night with a profound distaste. 

If Will Graham as the Mutilator had engaged in similar acts in similar places with Mason Verger as he was now with Frederick Chilton, the last shreds of Hannibal’s professional respect for him would disintegrate beyond redemption.

Hannibal consulted the app on his phone again. It narrowed his search down to the motel’s Eastern wing. He would have to check each of the eight doors himself. On quiet feet and with a slow tread, Hannibal stalked down the first floor breezeway, pausing by each window, each door. He did not expect to locate his quarry as quickly as he did.

And not the quarry he had expected, at that. 

“—killed?” asked the voice that had stopped him in his tracks. Not Will Graham’s or Frederick Chilton’s, but Freddie Lounds’. 

Relief and satisfaction flooded him, his previous tension now a distant memory.

He paused by the window, curtains drawn on the inside. Lucky for Hannibal, some patron of this fine establishment had been kind enough to break a fist-sized hole into the glass, and management had left it unrepaired. 

“I’m not certain what business it is of yours, Freddie,” Will responded, voice uncharacteristically low. Husky, even, and heavy with a silky drawl that Hannibal had yet to hear in any of the clipped retorts or verbal lashings they exchanged on Stratford Street.

“Isn’t that how these things work? The villain reveals all?” she bit out, revealing the depths of her fear. What he wouldn’t give to see through the hideous, maroon and mustard-striped drapes, and into the setup inside. 

“You’re borrowing a film trope,” Will murmured, again with that lyrical, dulcet lilt to his voice. “But this isn’t a movie. I’m no more a villain than you are a hero. And,” now humor injected itself into his speech, “the master plan would only ever matter if you got out of this alive.”

A pause, during which Hannibal’s breathing stilled in anticipation. 

“Which you won’t, by the way.”

From force of habit, perhaps, he could help himself no longer. He reached forward through the jagged hole and with a gloved finger drew the curtain far enough to see inside the room. Freddie Lounds sat bound on a rickety rattan chair, feet bare, ankles strapped to its legs, and clothed in nothing more than a bathrobe. Her red curls hung lank and wet around her face. Her wrists twisted where Will had tied them to the armrest, her chest protested against the tight coil of rope that held her torso still to the back of her seat.

Before her, Will sat, dressed all in black, straddling a folding plastic chair, arms dangling over the back. He held a wicked-looking hunting knife cavalierly in his right hand, and a small remote control in his left. 

Freddie averted her face to take a shuddering breath, exposing a black band around her neck. Her chest moved up and down, sucking in lungfuls of air, and her mouth opened wide. 

_She’ll scream_.

But Will pressed the button on his remote, and Freddie went rigid, then limp, her voice dying on her lips. She panted, lifting hateful eyes up at Will, her entire body vibrating. 

A shock collar? A painful form of discipline. Also an effective one. 

“I find it interesting that of all the questions you’ve asked me, you’ve been avoiding the _why_ of things,” Will said. 

“You’re butt-hurt that I implied you’re a wannabe Ripper,” she spat, voice creaking and strained.

Will laughed, a charming sound, his posture still relaxed, his mirth genuine. “Anyone with eyes and a knowledge of my previous work would know that theory was bunk, Freddie. It annoyed me, sure, but you’re still off the mark.” Freddie remained silent, mutinous. Will toyed with the remote in his hand. “I have some concerns regarding ethics in crime journalism. Granted the trash you write can’t be called _journalism_ , really. But unfortunately you have some reach, and people want to believe you. For some reason.” 

“So it’s not slights against you, it’s my reporting in _general_.” Her voice dripped sarcasm, hands curling into ineffectual fists. 

“That’s it. Wouldn’t have become an immediate problem if you hadn’t slandered Margot and Alana, but I really can’t have you running your mouth when they’ve got a baby on the way.”

“A lot riding on that baby,” she grumbled.

“More than just their peace of mind,” he said, adjusting his grip on his knife. “Your life, among other things.”

“And you’re concerned about _my_ ethics.”

“Well ‘serial killer’ isn’t exactly an ethical profession,” Will said, and Hannibal suppressed a chuckle. “But journalism is supposed to be. If I were you I’d be less worried about my sense of _ethics_ , and more concerned with my sense of justice.”

“If you cared about justice, we’d be in a courtroom, rather than chatting about how you plan to kill me.”

Will didn’t seem phased by this attack. “Publishing lies isn’t all you’re guilty of, Freddie,” he said, voice a near-whisper, so that Hannibal had to lean in toward the hole in the glass to make out his words. “You’ve done so. Much. Worse.”

Her lower lip trembled. Hannibal turned his back to the window and leaned against the wall beside it, closing his eyes to savor the shaking in her voice when she replied, “what do you think you know?”

“I see all of your crimes, Freddie,” Will continued, still whispering. Freddie appeared mesmerized, unable to blink, unable to look away. Hannibal too stood transfixed. “As if they were tattooed onto your skin.”

The rustling of fabric followed, the scraping of a chair. Freddie’s pathetic wail, cut off by the shock collar. 

“I’m going to need you to stay quiet,” Will instructed, voice soft, menacing. The sound of paper crumbling, then Freddie’s piteous groan. 

A TattleCrime gag? A little on the nose.

Hannibal peeked into the window one more time, to find his suspicions confirmed. 

Across the parking lot, a room door opened, two voices from inside escalating into shouts. 

Hannibal hesitated a moment. He would much rather stay and watch Will work. But without cover, it would be unwise. 

And yet, he found he could not quite tear himself away from the window, not until the argument across the way escalated, a beer bottle thrown and broken, shattering glass piercing the night.

He sucked in a deep breath, took one last look into the room as Will whispered into Freddie’s ear. Fat, hopeless tears rolled down her cheeks, but rather than from misery, she overflowed with loathing. She raised her gaze, and for a moment, her bright blue eyes met his. Hope bloomed there. Finger to his lips, and not bothering to hide the cruelty in his smile, he shook his head. 

He stayed long enough to see the hope die, before leaving Will to his work.

When Hannibal checked his newsfeed the following morning, he did not expect to find an update on TattleCrime. And yet that red and white icon winked at him from its place at the top of his list: 

> **TATTLECRIME EXCLUSIVE: FREDDIE LOUNDS MURDERED. DETAILS INSIDE.**

Hannibal glanced at his watch. A few minutes past 6am, too early for housekeeping to have refreshed the rooms. _Either way, it will be the first time that room has seen a decent cleaning._

But unless Freddie resurrected herself to write about her own demise, and Hannibal would be unsurprised if she figured out how to do so out of spite alone, this article had been written by none other than the Mutilator himself.

If someone had noticed the screams last night and tipped off the police, he would have already heard about it from Jack. Hannibal had consulted with the FBI in Alana’s stead on occasion and had offered to cover for her during her maternity leave. When he agreed to that, though, she neglected to inform him of the frequency with which Jack would come calling.

As if on cue, Hannibal’s cell phone rang, Jack’s name lighting up the screen. He barely managed a greeting before Jack trampled over it in his thunderous voice. 

“Tell me,” the man bellowed, and Hannibal held the phone a little further away from his ear, “how can someone run a story about their own murder? Don’t answer that, it’s a rhetorical question.”

Straight to business, then. Hannibal cleared his throat. “You are referring to the TattleCrime article.”

“I’m at the crime scene—don’t put that there—!” Jack yelled. “The article got every last detail right. I didn’t like the woman, but Jesus.”

 _Yes_ , Hannibal thought, studying the gruesome images featured on the page, _the vice was a nice touch_. Will had wrenched Freddie’s jaw shut, and she’d bitten clean through her slanderous tongue. Hannibal sorely regretted having missed the moment, and some part of him regretted missing the chance to dispose of her himself. If he wasn’t going to be the one to kill her, he would have liked to stay. “Freddie Lounds is a controversial figure in her line of work.”

“Was,” Jack corrected. “Always knew she’d step on the wrong foot.”

“The question is, whose foot?”

“The killer was nice enough to answer that for us. He left his signature stag calling card.”

“The Maryland Mutilator,” Hannibal wanted to tell Will that the work should speak for itself _,_ tell the viewer who had created it, without the need for such gimmicks.

“We checked the IP address. The article was a scheduled upload from Freddie’s laptop, already sent to evidence. Doubt we’ll find anything useful on it. The Mutilator has wiped hard drives before.”

“Everything seems in line with his M.O.,” Hannibal agreed.

“About that, I need you to put together a profile on him.”

_Let’s see. Blue eyes, unruly brown hair. Infuriating. Holds the title for the worst postman known to mankind. Something charming in the way he taunts his victims, though it must spoil the meat._

“I’d be happy to do that for you, Jack.” 

They spoke until a crashing noise came from the other end of the line, and after a stream of cursing, Jack ended the call.

Hannibal closed his tablet and sat back in his desk chair. With Will’s fate in his hands alone, his lips tilted into a smile of satisfaction. 

He need only nudge Jack in Will’s direction and the Mutilator’s career as a household name in serial killing would come to an abrupt end. Retribution for all the gross negligence that plagued Guilford since Will had taken up their route. It would also reinforce Hannibal’s trustworthiness with the FBI and drum up a renewed respect within the psychiatric community. Already well-established in his craft, the Maryland Mutilator would be another shiny trophy on Hannibal’s shelf.

Then again, who would suffer if he were to eliminate the only unpredictable and interesting thing in his life as of late, but himself? Much to his dismay, the mailman had somehow come to occupy considerable real estate in his mind. He would not decide now. Hannibal would create an accurate profile for Will, as Jack had requested. Whether to hand it over, however, remained a question for later.

At his office, Hannibal carved out time to compile a list of murders attributed to the Mutilator and plotted them on a map. He highlighted Will’s two known mail routes in red, found online with minimal searching.

“His route used to cover Mason’s house, when he first started working for the Postal Service,” Alana had said once.

Mason’s murder lined up with the routes. But not only his murder. Two more occurrences: a suspected sex offender that died from blood loss due to the removal of his genitals, and a man with a record of domestic abuse.

A few outliers, murders that strayed from the mail routes. Freddie’s being the most recent example. Hannibal suspected their purpose lay in avoiding an identifiable pattern. If given the opportunity, he would suggest to Will not to make a habit of killing anywhere near where he worked. Then again, Hannibal himself often crossed those lines.

Profile completed, Hannibal found himself disappointed. 

The trusty mailman moonlighted as a vigilante. Quite a pedestrian call to action. A flimsy rationalization to satisfy his need to spill blood, while excusing himself from confronting his own morality. When Hannibal peeked through the curtains of the motel room, he saw something restrained and beautiful in Will’s darkness, something mired down by a self-appointed sense of justice.

Should he help Will pull that something out and polish it, give it its day in the sun? Or snuff it and watch those brilliant embers fade out into smoke and char, no more than a memory.

Twenty minutes until his first appointment at two o’clock; enough time for a quick call to Chilton. He dialed the number, and three rings later, Chilton answered the phone. 

“Good afternoon, Frederick,” Hannibal began. “Ms. Lamont expressed an interest in transferring her care over to you. Is this a good time for a hand off?”

“Ms. Lamont. You mean _Constance_ Lamont… of the Martha’s Vineyard Lamonts?”

“…yes, the same. I think it will be a positive change for her. Were you not aware?”

“Well, she did mention _something_ about it. I’m surprised that you’d consider it a positive change, though. I thought I’d have to wrestle her from you.”

“Well,” Hannibal said, ready to play to the man’s ego if it got him what he wanted. “I am afraid that my approach to her care may be more assertive than she requires. I believe that Constance would improve under a more… delicate hand.” Constance resisted her therapy for all that she insisted on continuing it. She refused to self-reflect and doled out blame to everyone else but herself. She needed a sycophant and not a psychiatrist.

Chilton would suit her perfectly.

“I have to agree with that sentiment, Hannibal. Astute of you to realize that.”

Hannibal’s fingers clenched around the office chair armrest. “There is a matter of all the tedious paperwork and files to discuss. Over dinner, perhaps. Are you free tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Yes, that should be—oh,” Chilton cut himself off before adding, smug, “Actually, I already have a dinner engagement with a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

“Not another of my clients, I hope.”

“No. Think local.”

“As much as I love guessing games, I regret that I do not have the time,” Hannibal said.

“It’s Will,” Chilton interjected, desperate to share this tidbit of information. “You know, the mail man?”

“I see. The day after, then.” Better to discourage Frederick from saying anything further about Will, considering what he had to say about him during the party. 

“Works for me.” Chilton said. Hannibal could hear the wheels turning in Chilton’s head, looking for ways to bring his date with Will back into the conversation. Before he could, Hannibal said goodbye and hung up. He had expected Will to make a move against Frederick, but so soon after murdering Freddie? In his research Hannibal had discovered that Will’s usual procedures included a cool down of 5-6 months. If he planned to act tomorrow, it would be a considerable escalation from anything else he had done. 

Two murders in less than a week. The thought, far from angering him as it had before, excited him.

_Tonight._

That excitement followed him on the car ride home and stayed with him until the next evening when he pulled up the tracking application once more. To his delight, the small blue dot inched closer and closer to Guilford. Will would arrive at Frederick’s house _soon_. 

He debated for a moment whether he should take his black duffel bag with him, but it remained in the basement undisturbed. He took only a scalpel, capped and tucked into the pocket of his slacks, and his umbrella. As he walked, he considered the potential scenarios that might await him. Will would present a challenge to take down first, but Hannibal believed he could manage it well enough. A more enticing idea: restrain Will somehow and force him to watch as Hannibal spilled Chilton’s blood. Despite the unrelenting rain that lashed against his legs and umbrella, the night’s promise put him in excellent spirits. 

As expected, an unfamiliar car sat in Chilton’s driveway. A dingy brown Toyota Corolla, in dire shape. Probably stolen. He took care not to misstep on the granite walkway leading up to Chilton’s front door—the stone glistened, slick in the downpour. Hannibal shook out his umbrella once under the awning over Chilton’s front door. He didn’t mind the rain. With this poor weather, it would be easier to get around unnoticed. 

The door opened to the lightest touch, unlocked and already ajar. He deposited his rain gear on the floor in the entryway as he stepped inside. The last time Hannibal had been here, Chilton had thrown a party to celebrate his appointment as the general administrator at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Hannibal remembered Frederick’s sour expression as the guests complimented the dishes Hannibal had brought more than anything else that night.

He ventured further into the house, towards the smell of fresh berries, followed by the faint scent of an eggy dessert. Pavlova, Hannibal guessed. Undercooked. Then came a voice from the same direction, unmistakably Will’s, pitched low but loud enough to be clear:

“I’ll be the one taking what I want from you, Frederick.”

As he neared the voices, Hannibal softened his footsteps. When he reached the dining room entrance, he lingered out of sight.

“Don’t be greedy,” Will said. “I’ll be taking my time with you.”

As he leaned into the threshold to peek inside, it occurred to him that Will Graham had turned him into something of a peeping tom. He let that thought curl his lips upward in humor until the room came into view. 

Then the smile dropped away. 

Empty dishes piled on top of the dining room table. A shame that Frederick’s ineptitude as a host left such an ill-conceived backdrop for the night’s planned festivities. 

But that wasn’t the worst of it. 

Hannibal entered the room, unnoticed by either party, too wrapped up in their suggestive conversation to pay him any mind. His jaw ticked as he took in Will’s state of undress. All dolled up for the occasion, Will’s white dress shirt draped about his shoulders. Hannibal tried not to notice that the shirt’s draping exposed a large, reddish discoloration blossoming on the side of Will’s neck. A mark that looked _profoundly_ out of place against his otherwise pristine, pale skin. He redirected his attention to the fabric of the shirt, still tucked in, loose under a waistband not held tight by a belt. And still Will’s dark jeans stayed situated. A perfect fit. 

Even worse, Chilton sat in front of Will, secured to one of the dining room chairs, shirt unbuttoned. His face tilted up towards his captor, eyelids heavy with unadulterated lust. Imagining what Will looked like in his view made it harder to breathe. 

Hannibal had entered the room so nonchalantly that Chilton did not startle upon noticing him. Instead, he arched a brow and teased: “I enjoy a threesome as much as anyone, Will, but not usually for a first date. And shouldn’t I get some veto power as to who?”

Will’s posture went rigid. His shirt rustled as he turned over his shoulder to glare at Hannibal. His cheeks were tinted a faint red, either from his ministrations on Chilton or perhaps from embarrassment for being caught in a compromising position.

He looked poised to charge at Hannibal, or at the very least to yell at him to get out. So it was much to Hannibal’s surprise that he did neither. His blue eyes, sharp enough to cut, bore into him with the predatory shine that Hannibal had missed out on, the first time he’d found himself voyeur to Will’s extracurriculars. 

And then Will’s expression softened, his mouth curling up into a playful grin. Something in Hannibal’s chest lurched, as though his heart were reaching toward the mailman before him.

All remaining plans for a _double_ homicide evaporated when, after a beat of tense silence, Will spoke. “Observe,” he asked, eyes blazing, “or participate?”

~✉~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, buttercups! We’re stepping on the gas. This was meant to be a five-chapter story originally but then so much stuff happened we had to divvy the chapters up. A lot more has to happen before we reach the end. _A lot_ , a lot more. 
> 
> September is here and gone! Please join us on *October* 9th for the next update.


	5. Leave him with something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: Unwanted sexual advances, Graphic description of unlicensed neurosurgery
> 
> To skip the surgery, stop reading from ‘new tricks’, and start again at ‘an eternity later’.
> 
> Approximately a 34-minute read.

~✉~

**The Postman’s Knock**

Chapter Five

Leave him with something.

~✉~

The look on Frederick’s face when Will invited himself over for dinner contained so much hope that Will almost reconsidered his plan of action. But he didn’t.

“I’m free tomorrow if you want to have me for dinner,” Will said, from his position lying on his belly on Chilton’s floor, one finger stroking under Artemis’ chin. He knew full well that Chilton salivated over the bottom half of the postal service uniform. That he couldn’t say no to him like this. That if he had plans, he would cancel them to make this happen. 

“You—you want to come over for dinner?”

He tickled a trail from Artemis’ chin to her plump belly, delighted in how her soft paws curled around his finger, the soft nip of her milk teeth. Cute now, but proof she needed more socializing. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Will observed, reluctantly pulling away from her and moving to lie on his side, looking up at Chilton from below. “You weren’t leading up to this?”

He didn’t blame Frederick for his confusion. Will had shot him down every time, sidestepping or deterring any advances since the moment they’d met. He would find the change in tune surprising, but irresistible. It would re-contextualize Will’s rejections as game-playing. 

“Dinner tomorrow it is, then,” Chilton said. “I’ll order something special.”

The lecherous twist to his grin made any remorse in Will evaporate into the air like sweat off his skin. He spent the hours after that feeling vindicated. _A last-minute show of humanity might have been enough to change my mind,_ he told himself.

A lie, but nothing to waste time worrying about. Too much else he needed to focus on. 

On Friday, he finished his route earlier than usual. He turned down lunch with Alana and Margot, sped through his deliveries, and rushed home after clocking out.

The dogs picked up on his excitement, dancing around him as he put the finishing touches on the empty bedroom upstairs, nosing at him through the shower curtain as he cleaned up, bumping at his legs while he shaved. No knicks, by some stroke of luck. He whistled as he combed his hair and dressed. A crisp white button-down shirt and black jeans, fitted enough to be stylish and worn-in enough to be comfortable for the evening’s activities. 

Then he packed his overnight bag, collected one of his calling cards, and kissed the dogs goodbye, one at a time. A quick lint-rolling once outside, and he was ready to go. 

Will drove to Baltimore in a car he’d acquired without permission from a neighborhood in Fredericksburg a few months before. A slight break in pattern for him—he made a habit of changing vehicles after each kill, but with two back to back, he’d held on to this one. Desperate times and all that. 

He drove right up to Frederick’s door, stepped out of his car into the rain with his bag on his shoulder, and jogged up to the house. Drops hit him on the way, landing on his shoulders, mussing his hair. Not a problem. It would make him appear disheveled, and Chilton would like that, giving him ideas for how the night might proceed. The weather report predicted heavier showers within the hour; for now, though, the awning protected him from the rain. 

Palms sweaty with anticipation, he rang the doorbell.

In the time after the chime pealed inside the house and before the door opened, the day’s excitement washed away, replaced by the unnerving calm that always possessed him before a night like tonight. He had a role to play, and justice to administer.

“You brought a bag,” Frederick exclaimed when he greeted him.

“Never know what the night will bring,” Will answered, giving him a coy tilt of his head. “You gonna keep me waiting out here?”

“Come in, come in.”

Frederick ran a hand across Will’s back and up to grasp his shoulder as he escorted him inside. Will itched to shrug it off, but he bore it quietly for now. He’d acted the honey trap before. Things always went smoother if he played along. Frederick turned the lock on the door. Not ideal; he’d need it open later.

“Would you like a tour, Will?” 

Will set his bag down. “I have a feeling once we get to the bedroom we won’t be getting out,” he teased. “And I did say I’d come for _dinner_.”

A chuckle as Frederick led them into the house. “Dinner it is.” 

Frederick Chilton, public reputation in tatters, no respect forthcoming from his peers in psychiatry, and so often treated as a buffoon, required little effort to keep satisfied. A murmur of agreement every so often throughout the meal as Frederick droned on—an occasional ‘wow’ if he made a point of listing an accomplishment outright—and the doctor would be in no doubt at all of Will’s interest in him. The food made up for the conversation, and the pleasant buzz from the wine kept his mood up. 

After they finished dessert, Will pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He walked around the table to where Chilton sat, cocking his hip against it.

“I have a surprise for you, but I left my bag in the entryway. I’ll go get it. You stay. Right. There,” he said, punctuating the words with a finger tapping on the knot on Chilton’s tie. “Maybe unbutton your shirt for me?”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” Chilton said, surging up and gripping Will by his hips. “And neither are you.” He brought his lips down on Will’s neck, shoving a leg between his knees.

“ _Stop_ ,” Will ground out, pushing Chilton away as the doctor’s grip tightened on his waist.

“Mm,” Frederick moaned, sucking Will’s skin into his mouth, scraping against his teeth. He surged forward again, rocking his leg up, nudging it closer toward Will’s crotch. “You gonna make me?”

Will’s fingers clutched at Frederick’s shoulders, not out of lust, but out of the will to keep from busting the man’s nose. “If you can’t play nice,” Will shoved him away hard enough that Chilton stumbled, looking wild and ready to pounce again, “you don’t get to play at all.”

“I like this side of you, Will,” the doctor panted, voice straining with desire. “It’s unexpected. Though I’d much prefer leading you instead.”

Will pretended to mull this idea over. “Another night. For now, I want you to behave. I want you to sit _still_. And unbutton your shirt.” He paused, gave him a sweet smile. “If you’re good, you get a treat. Will you be good, _Frederick_?”

The use of Chilton’s first name had the desired effect—desperation. His face flushed, his eyes grew lustful. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, hands shaking as he brought them up to squeeze Will’s waist one last time. “Okay,” he said, meek, missing his usual bravado.

“Don’t move,” Will said, freeing himself from Chilton’s clutches. Once in the hall, he wiped the saliva off his skin with his shirtsleeve, before taking stock of his surroundings. He hadn’t noticed any security cameras during his previous visits to the house, but it never hurt to be careful. Outside, the rain came down in torrents, drowning out the soft click as he unlocked the front door. He peered out into the night through the glass panels, and an odd unease settled over him, twisting in his stomach. 

For the Mutilator to strike twice in such short order. _Reckless_. But he reminded himself that Frederick Chilton’s sense of entitlement didn’t stop at Will’s body. He felt entitled to deform little Artemis by declawing her, to rob her of her ability to protect herself. Entitled to rearrange his patient’s identities with medicine and manipulation, destroy their _lives_ in the name of short-lived fame. _No. Not reckless. Justified_. 

He shouldered his bag and returned to the dining room, stomach flipping again with each step. He took a deep breath before crossing the threshold. 

_No room for doubts anymore_.

So much for ‘stay right there, Frederick had pushed the table to the side and moved his chair to the center of the room, under the chandelier. _Waiting for a lap dance._ He’d undone his tie, slung it around his neck, and unbuttoned his shirt. When he saw Will again, excitement smoldered in his eyes. “Not just an overnight bag?” he asked as Will set it down and unzipped it, far enough away to keep Chilton from seeing inside. 

“Not just an overnight bag,” Will agreed. He removed the calling card first, and laid it gently on the tabletop. He’d find a good place for it later. Then he pulled a length of silky black rope and touched it to his lips. “Do you mind if I tie you up a little?”

“I thought I’d be the one tying _you_ up.”

A pout and a “Where’s the fun in that?” had Chilton chuckling his agreement. “Hands behind you,” Will instructed, and set about binding his willing prey. Wrists together, feet to the legs of the chair. Once secured, Will caressed his way up Chilton’s thighs, checking for anything in his pockets. 

“Uh-oh,” Will said, bumping against the telltale outline of Frederick’s phone. “No interruptions tonight. Raise your hips.”

Frederick, all too eager to comply despite his awkward positioning, lifted his bottom off the chair. A desperate sound escaped his lips as Will slid his fingers into his pocket, but they didn’t linger. Will retrieved the phone and turned it off. “Better. Comfortable?”

“Yes,” came the strained reply. “I want to see you.”

“I was planning on blindfolding you,” Will said, tugging the tie from where it dangled around Chilton’s neck. 

“Let me see you first, Will. If I can’t touch you.”

Will held in a sigh. A concession he could stand to make, as he planned to shed the shirt, anyway. He stepped forward, between Chilton’s splayed legs, raising his fingers to his collar. In no rush at all, he undid his buttons, working his way to the bottom. Chilton didn’t bother trying to conceal the want on his face as Will trailed his fingers along the panels of fabric to push the sides of his shirt open. One of his sleeves dragged over his shoulder, threatening to slip down his arm to his elbow.

“Is that what you wanted to see?” Will asked, reaching for the tie. “Get your paws all over?”

“Oh, God,” Chilton moaned.

“You wanted to restrain me,” he went on, running the tie through his fingers. For all Chilton’s faults, Will had to commend him for his fair dress sense. This was a stylish choice—sky blue with silver and navy cross-hatching. Will hated shopping. It would make a decent enough replacement for the green one his father gave him ten years ago. “Because you like controlling others. _Using them_. Taking what you want from them.”

Another garbled sound of arousal from Frederick. 

Will leaned down, bringing his lips right up to Chilton’s ear. “It’s not going to go that way for you tonight,” he said. He straightened, holding the length of silk taut in his hands. “I’ll be the one taking what I want, Frederick.”

“Please,” Frederick whimpered, spellbound.

“Don’t be greedy,” Will said. “I’ll be taking my time with you.”

Frederick sucked in an anticipatory breath. His entire body vibrated, desperate to escape his bounds and devour Will. Will didn’t mind the cat-and-mouse game, but he didn’t want to drag it out.

He hoisted the tie up, ready to cover his victim’s eyes. 

But Frederick spoke again, halting Will’s movement. “I enjoy a threesome, Will, but not usually for a first date. And shouldn’t I get some veto power as to who?”

Will turned to stone. 

He didn’t even breathe, the cogs in his mind too busy turning. A million different scenarios played out in his head in that one instant. He’d _have_ to look. 

The shirt slipped the rest of the way over his shoulder as he pivoted. Every nerve keyed into the way his blood pumped, his face heated, the moment he laid eyes on their visitor. 

_Hannibal Lecter, Chesapeake Ripper_. He swallowed hard. 

Of all the people to be caught out by. Of all the situations to be caught out _in_. Half-naked almost, with Chilton’s boner pressing up against his leg, as if this were some kinky role-play—

Which it was, but not how the phrase usually implied. 

All at once, his embarrassment gave way to anger and indignation. The flicker of hope in Freddie’s eyes, the fluttering of the curtains in the motel room window that prompted it— _now_ they made sense. Hannibal Lecter had been following him. _Spying_ on him. Yet another entitled asshole to knock down a peg. 

And Will could do it, too. Hannibal had lost the element of surprise. Will could strike now, beat him down. Wrap his fingers around that neck, crush his trachea, squeeze the life from him. One more nuisance out of the way.

But then it occurred to him that while Hannibal had the perfect opening to do the same to Will earlier, he had done nothing. Just stood there, _watching_.

No need to be reckless. No need to waste an opportunity, either. Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper, foremost in their field. A little professional respect would go a long way. 

With as welcoming a smile as he could muster, he spoke. “Observe or participate?”

“By participate,” Hannibal said, humor curling his lips, “you don’t mean you intend to tie me down as well, do you?” 

Frederick, below him, balked. Will did not blame him.

“I wouldn’t necessarily mind,” Hannibal went on, his eyes burning against Will’s skin. The dim light of the dining room softened his sharp features. “Though for the moment I prefer to watch the artist at work.”

 _The artist at work._ Ire melted his embarrassment away. “Funny,” Will said. “I figured you read Freddie’s bullshit, but I didn’t think you bought into it.”

Agitated now, Frederick cut in again. “What is goi—” 

Will didn’t have the patience for him anymore. He shoved the tie between Frederick’s teeth like a bit in a horse’s mouth and knotted it behind his head. 

When he turned his attention to Hannibal at last, facing him head-on, he saw that his insult hit its mark. Hannibal’s jaw clenched, his hands loose at his sides but too rigid, too ready. 

“I did not mean to insult you,” Hannibal said, voice controlled. He stepped further into the room and then stilled. 

_An attempt to appear non-threatening._ His pants were damp, sticking to his legs. Probably walked over in the rain. That should make him seem non-threatening enough. But it didn’t. 

“Your work has adopted a more graphic quality of late,” he said. “If artistry was not your intention, it was nonetheless the result.”

Oh. A compliment. Returning the professional respect.

Will crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the muffled noises Frederick made behind them. “I’m not you,” he conceded. “I don’t find beauty in the horror here.”

“And yet I find qualities in your pieces to admire.” He smiled, an easy charisma shining through his usual detached demeanor. 

Will felt dangerously close to relenting. Dr. Lecter had tried laying on the charm before, but never with this sincerity. It didn’t blind Will to his ulterior motives, but he knew that Hannibal meant what he said, at least in part. 

“I don’t need an audience,” he hedged. 

“Ah, but you must see that you owe me this?” Hannibal tutted. “You took both Mason and Freddie from me. It would be too much for you to take Frederick too, without allowing me to at least witness his end.”

“You _saw_ Freddie’s end.”

The corner of Hannibal’s lips ticked up. “Caught that, did you?” A beat. “But I stepped away before the climax. Don’t make me miss Frederick’s.”

Chilton, though bound and gagged, made no mystery of his feelings on that subject. The chair legs rattled against the floor as he tipped and tilted in place, struggling to loose himself from captivity.

Like any other reasonable multiple murderer, Will ignored him. This teasing little rejoinder from Hannibal came charged with a threat: _You must; and if you don’t, I’ll make you_. “Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth together. “Fine.”

Hannibal answered with a gracious nod of his head before he crossed the room and fished around in Will’s bag. Will screwed his eyes shut for a moment to center himself, before facing Chilton, who, perhaps because of the adrenaline from his dawning awareness of the danger of his situation, pressed even harder against Will’s leg. 

The panic in the man’s face made up for the interruption, he supposed, but it made the work all that much more difficult. Much easier to do what he intended with his prey docile and motionless beneath him. 

Will drew his hand back to slap Chilton to stillness, but lost steam when Hannibal’s voice drifted from behind him again. 

“An icepick?” he asked in his lyrical accent. Chilton began struggling anew.

Will deflated. _Oh for fuck’s—_

“This time, yes.”

“In the style of Moniz, or Freeman?”

When Will turned to look at him again, ignoring Frederick’s writhing to ask him if he could kindly shut up, Hannibal took the pause as a request for explanation. “Egas Moniz invented the lobotomy—”

“If I’m using an icepick,” Will interrupted, “then _obviously_ I’m referencing Freeman’s technique.”

An uptick in the corner of Hannibal’s lips. “It is true that Moniz decried Freeman’s technique, and with good reason. Were you aware he performed as many as twenty-five hundred ice pick lobotomies over the course of his career? Never mind that he had no surgical experience—he performed them left-handed at times, for fun, and could begin and end a procedure in six minutes flat.”

Will gnawed on his tongue to quell the violence that wanted to spill from it. “Yes, I was aware,” he said, sounding each word out as though speaking to a child. “Which is why I selected it for the patient in my chair.”

Chilton’s wailing and moaning, his writhing and sweating, all became frenzied.

“While not a neurosurgeon by trade,” Hannibal said, carrying the bag over to Will and handing him the icepick, “I do have some experience in that field. I would be more than happy to assist.”

Will closed his eyes for patience once more. _So much for ‘watch the artist at work.’_ He took the icepick with a mumbled thanks.

Chilton’s face had turned red, eyes darting between Will and Hannibal, terrified and disbelieving. Will almost pitied the man. He cupped Chilton’s cheek and leaned in. “You can relax, okay?” he murmured. “I’m not planning to kill you.” 

Entreaty replaced the terror in Chilton’s eyes. _Don’t hurt me at all,_ he begged. 

“Another shock collar?” Hannibal asked, holding the item up and dropping Will’s bag onto the floor. “Doesn’t quite suit the theme.”

“I’m not telling a story here, _Hannibal_ ,” Will said, and satisfaction would have him wagging his metaphorical tail at the way that Hannibal reacted to hearing his name. Startled, suspicious, preening, all at once. “Chilton’s crimes aren’t limited to his unethical treatment of the human beings under his care.” Beneath him, though much weaker now, Frederick struggled again. _So much for calming him down_.

Hannibal’s gaze dropped to the shock collar. “Human beings under his care. Animals too?” A beat, and then, “Ah. Constance Lamont—” he directed a sly grin at Chilton, something taunting, a ‘say it if you dare’ kind of look, and continued, “—gave him one of her kittens, if I recall.” He glanced around, as though searching the room. 

“She’s locked up upstairs,” Will grunted.

“A spare bedroom is hardly on par with psychological torture for the unworried unwell.”

Will clenched his jaw again, fighting his aggravation. “Are you familiar at all with veterinary practice, Doctor Lecter?” he asked. “Know much about declawing?” 

Dr. Lecter tilted his head, but said nothing. He knew, but he wanted to see Will give in to his aggravation. 

Smug. Bastard. 

“They amputate the digits from the first knuckle on down. He’s planning on _mutilating_ her,” he said, knowing full well that use of this word made him something of a hypocrite, “and then letting her out into the wild without means to protect or feed herself. Not to mention all the health problems that arise from declawing—” he stopped there. Enough said. 

“Terrible,” Hannibal conceded, though with too much levity in his voice to pass for offended. “And yet still common practice, unfortunately. Will you go after the thousands of other ignorant Americans declawing their animals too?”

“Sure, if I had the time and means to do so.”

“I suppose at least you are consistent in that regard. Though a shock collar doesn’t quite capture the gruesome quality of that procedure.”

 _Watch. The artist. At work._ He couldn’t control himself any longer. Even knowing that Hannibal wanted him to explode, he couldn’t _help it_. “I’m sure you’ve got better ideas. _Murder as art_ is your M.O., isn’t it? But it’s not mine. If you’re going to observe, then be quiet and watch.”

Hannibal put a hand on Will’s bare shoulder and squeezed gently. The contact of his warm palm set a fire on Will’s cooled skin—and maybe his face, too—though Hannibal had likely meant it as a calming gesture. An apologetic one. One that absolutely contradicted his next words. “Then perhaps I opt to participate instead.”

Will slipped out from Hannibal’s hold, tossing both hands in the air in frustration. “Be my guest.”

Chilton lost it, then. He couldn’t handle the tension, the debates over the merits of murder or mutilation, the knowledge of what lay in store for him any longer. He passed out, falling limp, head lolling over the back of the chair, limbs lax and pliant in their bounds. Not the docility that Will had expected, but one that he would accept without complaint. A lobotomy would be hard enough without adding patient movement into the picture.

Will mourned the tie, though. It would have matched his new suit, but he wouldn’t be bringing it home now _—_ not soaking with saliva, like one of so many of his dog’s chew toys.

“Oh no, no.” Hannibal tutted. “I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression, Will. I don’t intend to take over or direct you. But if I have your permission, I would not be averse to a little collaboration. Nothing that would alter the merits of your message.”

Something in the lilt of Hannibal’s voice told Will that he’d left something off at the end of that statement. Nothing that would alter his message, “Just enhance it,” he finished. 

A deferential tip of the chin in response.

Will studied him. Prepared to railroad over Will’s boundaries should he deny him. ‘No’ would mean nothing to him _—_ no more than a suggestion, which he could turn his formidable powers of persuasion against to overcome. In fact, even now, Hannibal rolled up the sleeves on his clinging cotton knit turtle-neck, exposing his tanned forearms as though ready to work. 

His stomach dropped. “Let me do what I’m going to do,” he said, knowing that he had no choice but to accept, “and then I’ll let you finish him up.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal said. 

“But he doesn’t die, Hannibal.” 

A pause. A tick of the doctor’s brow. “As you say.”

They didn’t linger over the conversation. Chilton’s struggles had already produced the desired effect _—_ rope burns around his wrists and ankles. He needed dressing down, still. Shoes and socks removed, then his pants. Will had worried he might have to change the man into something more fitting for his punishment, the lack of dignity he afforded his patients, but Chilton had taken care of that aspect as well—a purple lamé thong that rode over his hip bones, complete with studs down the center seam.

Hannibal made a sound, somewhere between disapproval and disgust. Will agreed. A bit much for a first date.

Will raised Chilton’s eyelid, icepick at the ready in this opposite hand. 

“The transorbital approach, while of course unsound for surgery on such a delicate and idiosyncratic organ, in the absence of some kind of imaging,” Hannibal said, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality as he ran his hand across Will’s shoulders for another reassuring squeeze, “was quite the innovation. A comparatively easy bone to puncture. Such simple means of accessing the source of what many would argue provides us our humanity.”

A chill descended Will’s spine. “Patients became calm, docile.” The words came from his lips, but they reverberated in his ears as though Hannibal had spoken them. He sucked in a breath. “No more executive functions, no more complex thought, no more power of initiation.” 

“Higher,” Hannibal murmured, touching a light finger to Will’s wrist to change his angle of entry. “If you want him to live, you must leave him with _something_ , Will.”

Despite his earlier anger, the sweet, melodic tones of Hannibal’s voice, the gentleness of his direction, and the beautiful intimacy of their changing of Chilton, made Will find the interruption humorous rather than controlling. He chuckled and adjusted his hold on the improvised orbitoclast.

“Good boy,” Hannibal whispered closer to Will’s ear. 

“Not a dog,” Will mumbled, brow furrowing in concentration. 

“But you _are_ learning new tricks.”

Will huffed his amusement, tossing a glance in Hannibal’s direction and catching the smugness on his face, before he resumed his work. “Hammer.” Hannibal deposited it in his open hand, and Will hefted it to get a feel for its weight before swinging. 

_Gently_. Like cracking a crème brûlée.

Tap. 

Tap.

He blew out a long breath. A moment of resistance against the ice pick, which fell away as it sunk into the soft tissues behind the bone, a few centimeters deep. Blood trickled down the ice pick, formed a rivulet coursing over his hand. He pushed the pick further forward.

 _Easy as coring a strawberry,_ he thought, marveling at how readily the tissue yielded to the pressure of his instrument.

“Not too deep,” Hannibal cooed. 

Will stilled his hand. 

“There we are.”

Hannibal’s satisfaction rolled off of him in waves, and Will’s stomach warmed, his face heated with it. _Pleased, so pleased._ He couldn’t even find it in himself to mind when Hannibal reached around him and took hold of his blood-covered hand, guiding his movements to complete the procedure. 

Stirring. 

Scrambling his brain, in the literal sense. 

Will shuddered, and Hannibal let out another satisfied sigh, the warmth of his breath whooshing past Will’s ear. 

Together, they pulled the pick free, watched as the blood streamed down Chilton’s face. They stood, silent, breaths coming in synchrony, Hannibal’s warmth behind Will’s back. 

An eternity later, Will reached for the shock collar. 

Hannibal straightened behind him. “Will, if I may propose an alternative.”

He blinked out of his trance, glancing over his shoulder at Hannibal. Still dreamy, still floating on the waves of their combined satisfaction, he didn’t say no. “Hmm?”

“It might be, perhaps, a bit literal, but would you consider declawing him instead?”

Will stopped breathing. His fingers, steadfast in their attention before, began to tremble. Hannibal reached out, steadying them with his own, warm from the blood. He removed the stained shock collar from Will’s grasp and tossed it into the black bag on the floor.

“I’d like to show you something,” Hannibal said, taking Will by the hand and leading him out of the room. “I passed by something that caught my interest on the way in, something in uncharacteristically good taste for Frederick,” he paused, “All things considered.”

They stopped in front of a glass display case in the parlor, which housed a number of antiquities and objets d’art. 

Will peered inside, trying to focus past the buzzing in his mind. He’d seen the case before, but Chilton’s advances had preoccupied him too much to pay them attention. “Antique surgical tools?”

Hannibal unclasped the case, pulling out a heavy-duty pair of pliers or clippers. “A rongeur bone cutter. Amputation needs precision and an attentive eye, or you risk the patient bleeding out.” He held the tool up closer to the light before holding it out to Will, placing it in his open palm. 

They returned to their victim. Chilton sat limp and drooling in his chair where they had left him. He looked vulnerable. Looked pathetic. 

“At the first knuckle, Will.” Hannibal said as Will grabbed one of Chilton’s fingers.

Hannibal continued to speak, his voice garbled as if Will dunked his head in a bucket of water. He clutched the bone cutter with fingers that felt foreign to him. His hands hovered before him, controlled by a puppeteer he could not see. But he could _feel_ him—how natural the embrace as his body wrapped around him from behind, his gentle command guiding him.

 _Thunk._ One fingertip fell to the floor and rolled under the table.

 _Thunk._ Two.

Will’s back melted into Hannibal’s chest where their bodies met. He wanted to bask in this moment, a nebulous ecstasy that kept eluding him as he tried to hold on to it, to savor it. As it filled him up, he braced himself, terrified of its crescendo and eventual peak.

Before Will registered what was happening, they’d bandaged up the maimed fingers with scraps from Chilton’s abandoned shirt. Hannibal’s dark figure stepped out from behind him, shadowed in concentration. He produced his scalpel as he insinuated himself between Chilton’s body and Will’s, making room to poise the tip under Chilton’s ribcage. The silver edge, wickedly sharp, glinted against the pale flesh. Beads of blood welled up from the skin where Hannibal made an incision, slipping down the pale length of Chilton’s ribs to where it dripped on the floor. Will licked his lips and overcome by a devastating thirst, he thought to drop to his knees, tempted to taste the blood splattered there.

… _What?_

Where had that come from?

 _This isn’t right_ , Will thought. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ He felt possessed.

_I have to get out of here._

Away from Hannibal.

Ears ringing, Will stumbled over his feet to flee the dining room. He careened down the hallway towards the restroom and almost collapsed against the vanity. Palms slapped against the porcelain as he gripped the edges and shivered hard, the sink smearing with blood under his fingers. 

Will took a few deep, stabilizing breaths. He ran the cold tap from the faucet and cleaned the drying blood from his skin, scrubbing until it turned as red as if the blood still stained it. Tremulous, he pulled his shirt back over his shoulders, and managed the top few buttons before giving up. A shuddering breath, and he reached for the water again, splashing it on his face and neck, dampening the fabric around his collar. In the mirror, the purpling hickey Chilton left with him prickled, peeking out over the fabric. He grabbed the roll of toilet paper and wiped the sink down, threw the evidence in the toilet and flushed.

 _You were enjoying that._ He flicked the faucet open once more to splash water on his face. _You enjoyed that. With him. Fuck._

With Chilton in the Ripper’s capable hands, Will had a more pressing matter to attend to. He left the bathroom and made his way to the spare bedroom where Frederick had confined Artemis. When he opened the door, she yelped and trotted toward him, brushing her tiny body against his legs, starved for affection.

Will lifted her up into his arms. “You’re okay, baby. Daddy’s got you.”

Artemis snuggled up to Will as he located her pet carrier. He kept her in his arms for a minute, letting her purring calm him, and then placed her inside to take her home. In the car, Will settled Artemis in the rear seat, securing her carrier with the help of the seat belt. 

She didn’t make any noise on the drive home, and when he glanced in through the grate, she lay curled up in a tiny ball, fast asleep. _The sleep of the innocent_. He sighed. But the soothing silence disappeared the moment he stepped on his porch, carrier in hand. Frenzied tapping and the scraping of nails on the floorboards sounded through the front door before he even opened it. His dogs, delighted as always to greet him.

Once inside, his curious dogs nipped at his ankles until he held a hand out to clear enough space for the carrier. It made a soft thunk as he lowered it onto the wood, and Will’s heart stuttered remembering Chilton’s fingertip, bouncing and rolling away on the marble. 

“Sit!” Will commanded to a chorus of excited whimpering. Ever obedient, the dogs settled, and Will opened the carrier door. For a moment, he thought Artemis would not come out. No big deal. He would let her out in the spare bedroom he set up for her arrival earlier, where she could hide for the rest of the evening if she wished. 

But then, to everyone’s surprise, she shot out of the carrier like a bullet, zigzagging through the startled dogs. Will held his breath, fearful that they may be too aggressive with her in their enthusiasm, but exhaled in relief as Artemis swatted her little paw against Winston’s muzzle when his nose got too curious. Winston, a good dog, whined, and then backed off.

“That’s my girl,” Will cooed. Already a feisty one, and with all these older siblings she would learn and always have the means to defend herself. Not that that time would ever come. She had a home now, and her new family would never allow her to come to harm.

Or him, for that matter. He’d run off on the Chesapeake Ripper, after all.

~✉~

Upon arriving home, after a quick detour to the pantry, Hannibal allowed himself to relax. A long, steaming shower. He deserved a little indulgence. 

He played the night over in his head. Again, and again, until the details snapped into place and furled into a neat reel of film, ready to replay whenever he wished. Will’s premature departure had not gone unnoticed, but in the moment, Hannibal could neither chase after him, nor linger in taking what he wanted. Chilton needed suturing, and Will had left evidence behind for Hannibal to clean up. Something to leverage over him at a later date.

He toweled off his damp hair before bed. His thoughts wandered to Will’s warmth against his chest as they’d wrapped up Chilton’s fingers to stymie the loss of blood. How Will’s body quaked and shivered, forcing Hannibal to step back for fear of overstimulating him, pushing him further than he could handle. Will’s body flushed with color everywhere, his neck warming up to the color of the suck mark that Chilton had inflicted upon him.

In that moment, in the quiet dining room, another part of Hannibal had awakened. A part which Hannibal gripped now, under the sheets. Will’s cocky smile after he’d almost ran over Hannibal’s mail box. The ire in his eyes when Hannibal had insisted on compensation. White shirt slipping down his shoulders. Will had found purchase in his mind and refused to release him. 

And Hannibal, helpless, sunk deeper into their combined madness until he breathed his name into the night like a prayer.

That hazy contentment at the thought of Will Graham intensified when, on the following Saturday afternoon, Hannibal stood on Will’s porch, his forgotten bag in hand. Despite the weekend, Will ought to be at work. And yet his car sat parked in front of the house.

Hannibal had not counted on seeing him today, though the possibility thrilled him now. He had seen neither hide nor hair since their communion at Chilton’s house the week before, no matter how he altered his mealtimes in hopes of catching him. Excitement bubbled in his chest as he raised his hands and knocked. The barking dogs, he expected. Will’s expression falling to displeasure upon seeing who stood at his door, he had not.

“Good afternoon, Will,” Hannibal tried, voice pleasant despite the less than affable reception. Will said nothing in response, staring, his grip on the wooden door tightening until his knuckles paled. Hannibal raised the black duffel bag into view.

Those piercing blue eyes flitted down to the bag, and he grunted, releasing the door. “May as well come in,” he said. “I’d say ‘make yourself at home’ but you already know your way around.”

And he did. Hannibal stepped into the house, smelling soap and sweat lingering in the air around Will as he passed. The dogs swarmed him, tails wagging in happy greeting, though he did not see the kitten anywhere. “I expected you to be at work. Though I welcome the chance to see you.”

“Planning to break in again?” Will said. Hannibal tipped his chin in confirmation. Will received that deadpan. “Called out sick. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Hannibal advanced into the living room, dodging around the dogs, to set the bag down on the coffee table. “Your work ethic as a mailman has always left something to be desired, but I never pegged you for a truant,” he said, aiming for light teasing. Will evidently had not come away from Chilton’s house with the same positive associations that Hannibal had for their evening’s activities. This surprised Hannibal. Granted Will had left early, but Hannibal had ascribed that to overstimulation rather than _anger_. “Must be difficult for your coworkers.”

So much anger in Will’s glare as he stood, still by the front door, hands curled into fists at his side. “Difficult for _my_ coworkers,” he scoffed. “Let’s talk about workplace etiquette then, Hannibal.”

His name again. Will never seemed to use it unless he could fill it with spite, but hearing it roll from his lips still gave Hannibal a sense of visceral satisfaction. “You left quite a mess,” Hannibal murmured, tone still light, though the accusation weighing down each of Will’s quips grated. 

“ _I_ didn’t make a mess. The lobotomy was clean. The shock collar would have been too. _You’re_ the one who went for the kidneys. You’re the one who cut off his—”

“I seem to recall you were an enthusiastic participant,” Hannibal interrupted him, now at the limits of his patience, “when we declawed Chilton.”

“I had a plan,” Will insisted. High color had entered his cheeks, and his eyes grew luminous in their passion. “A good one. Then you came and fucked things up.”

Hannibal reached his capacity for finding humor in this exchange. “You can’t think to deny that Frederick Chilton as we left him sent a far more compelling message than the version of him that you intended. You had a _concept_ ,” he corrected. “One that I helped refine.” He could have been more direct, even than that. _One that I refined. One that I elevated to art_. But frustration had not yet outweighed his desire to reestablish peace between them.

“Refine?” Will spat, voice several decibels louder. The dogs scattered to the kitchen. “You mean co-opt? You railroaded over every decision I made that night, and you’re acting like you did me a _favor_?”

Neither moved. The space between them—Will by the door, Hannibal in the living room—felt like an insurmountable, yawning chasm. Not so many nights ago, their hearts had beat in synchrony, their minds had worked as one. But now, even as Hannibal advanced on Will, cornering him to the door, they were worlds apart. Outside, a cloud crossed over the sun, and cast the room in relative darkness; Will, still partially in the path of light remained, became an avenging angel in chiaroscuro. Giovanni Baglione’s _Sacred and Profane Love_ sprung to mind.

“Then tell me you didn’t feel it too. How easily we fell into harmony. Anticipated one another’s movements. Will you deny it?

It seemed that he couldn’t: his lips clamped closed, and his eyes, though only for a moment, averted. 

“Whatever miscommunication occurred, what happened to Frederick is done,” Hannibal said. He advanced further still, coming within arms reach of the blue-eyed demon leaning against the door. “There is a far more important subject we must address.”

A humorless laugh. Will crossed his arms, gripping his elbows. “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“You are becoming impulsive, Will.”

Will’s eyes averted again. _Ah_. He recognized it too. But that wouldn’t matter. Will was in so oppositional a mindset that he would contest it, regardless. Hannibal knew it. 

“It was time sensitive,” Will grumbled, arguing even through the loss of steam. “In more ways than I anticipated, apparently.”

Now Hannibal scoffed. “Time sensitive.” _Such flimsy excuses are below you, Will._ “Let’s not delude ourselves. Frederick provoked you, so you transformed him. Never mind the cat, or the fate of his patients. Any moral justification would have sufficed.”

“You say that like his transgressions weren’t justification enough. Maybe if it had been just his professional misconduct, I would have put him off. The situation with Artemis couldn’t wait.” After a pause, Will squared his shoulders and stepped away from the door, reclaiming some of the space that Hannibal had stolen. “You’re just angry that I got to him first.” 

“Don’t be obtuse,” Hannibal snapped. “You know that I am perfectly content with the result.” He steadied himself with a breath, to regain some control. “What is in question is your insistence on clinging to this veneer of morality. You believe you are absolved, punishing those who you persuade yourself deserve it. Your hands look clean, but I suspect your pipes are lined with blood.”

“A veneer of morality is still better than an absence of one.” 

Frankly, a rather stupid rejoinder. 

Will seemed to realize that. He dodged around Hannibal, sucking in a breath so large once clear that Hannibal wondered if their closeness had made him claustrophobic. Hemmed in by Hannibal’s proximity, rendered unable to think. Too flattering a prospect, and therefore unlikely _._ “My justifications for what I do are not for you to scrutinize, Doctor.”

“As _you_ are making no effort to interrogate them, it seems that they _are_. Given that you are risking unnecessary exposure, endangering yourself. And me as well, by extension.”

“You?” Will asked, whipping around to face him, brows drawn up in confusion. “Why would this endanger you? However impulsive I may be, it won’t—Oh.”

A slip. His fool tongue had gotten away from him, and given Will a disastrous advantage. Before this, Hannibal had not yet put words to or even examined this burgeoning hope. But in the throes of this quarrel, he had let his most cherished desire fly from his lips without a moment’s consideration for the consequences.

And Will, perceptive as ever, saw the truth behind the words.

“This was a one-time deal, Doctor. Did you think we were going to—to keep doing this together?” 

His incredulity stung. 

But the incredulity gave way to viciousness when Will struck next. “You thought, what? That this was _the start of something new_?” 

Hannibal clamped his jaw shut. He breathed, collected himself before speaking. Will had not only dashed his hopes, but ground them into the dirt and spit on them. If Hannibal’s response came out anywhere close to civil, he would count it an accomplishment. 

“I won’t deny that the idea has some appeal,” he managed, though he could not conceal the tightness in his voice. “There’s something beautiful in your cruelty, Will. A shame to dilute it with quandaries of virtue. But that was not my purpose in coming here.”

Will laughed, a bitter, bitter sound, which twisted his lips into a cruel semblance of a smile. “Well then what was?”

His usual eloquence fizzled in the face of this disappointment. “To help.”

“I don’t need your _help_. I need you to leave.”

He could not feign nonchalance at this point. Hannibal nodded, a rigid movement. He moved to the door, chest growing tighter with each step. _You cannot leave like this_. The thought seemed to manifest from nowhere, bringing his feet to a sudden stop. His hand, already halfway raised to the doorknob, lowered to his side once more. 

A half pivot. Will had yet to move—he stared on, eyes shimmering with resentment. One brow cocked in response to Hannibal’s hesitation, but he said nothing.

“What we do, we do in secret. Hiding who we are is in our nature. But we see each other clearly now.” Hannibal swallowed. “Do you never feel lonely, Will?”

The words seemed to steal Will’s breath from him—to catch him unprepared. But to his credit, he did not answer right away. A plaintive meow broke through the silence. The black kitten, leaning against Will’s leg, arms extended as though asking for cuddles. Will bent down and scooped her off the floor, cuddling her to his chest. Will raised his eyes to Hannibal again, conviction in his expression as he gave his answer. “No.” 

He crossed the room and took the doorknob in hand, brushing against Hannibal’s arm as he passed, and then opened the door. 

“Goodbye, _Hannibal_.”

Hannibal stepped out onto the porch, and the door closed behind him, one quiet click and then another as Will engaged the lock. The midsummer sun burned, but not more than his skin beneath his shirt, still sizzling from the memory of Will’s passing touch.

~✉~

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was like, 20 pages of Postal Worker-Serial Killer UST. If you’re not feeling spoiled at this point, then we don’t know what to tell you. It gets worse though. Or better. Depends on your point of view, maybe?  
> Actually, we’re pretty sure “Don’t worry, it escalates further” is the Official Motto of this fic. Because it does. I just… keeps escalating.  
> Next update on 10/23!


	6. Differing Definitions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Feelings  
> Approximately a 23 min read.

  
  


~✉~

**The Postman’s Knock**

Chapter Six

Differing Definitions.

~✉~

Hannibal stood vigilant near the window—really, he ought to pin on a yellow ribbon at this point—hoping for even the briefest glance of the untidy curls that haunted his dreams. With the summer reaching its peak, he left an embroidered handkerchief in the mailbox. A present to Will, to wick away salt and sweat, and to replace the raggedy towel he kept in his back pocket. Hannibal would have preferred to give it to him directly, but Will had made an art of evasion. 

Will made his deliveries on foot, left packages on the front lawn near the mailbox, as far from the porch as possible. While the undue exposure of Hannibal’s shipments to the elements should infuriate him, he felt instead a pang of longing. A world of circumstances had changed between he and Will, and while Maryland at large may hear of their trespasses against God, it would never know the intimate beauty of their work together. 

That remained between them alone.

He caught the rattling of the mail truck, but by the time Hannibal made it to the front door, it had already whizzed past. A quick getaway. Hannibal missed him yet again. But though they might pass like ships in the night, he held out some hope: he hurried to his mailbox and peeked inside. No handkerchief. His spirits soared, only to come crashing down when it appeared, tucked under the stack of newly delivered mail.

If Will wanted space... well. Hannibal could provide him with that, albeit with reluctance. He would no longer wait for Will by the front window. He would not fabricate any accidental meetings at a neighbor’s house. In all his time getting to know Will, the man made one thing perfectly clear: he would not give in to pressure if he felt truly averse to the proposition. He had allowed Hannibal a hand in Chilton’s remediation, yes, but Will had been the one to dictate the terms. If he did not want to, he would not yield to persuasion, whether it be into lunch with Hannibal or to continue murdering alongside him, even as an equal and a companion. No matter how fervently Hannibal willed him to.

A week passed. Then a month, and not long after, the leaves on the oaks reddened and fell, withering up on the ground in the last vestige of the season. Always a man who prided himself on his patience, Hannibal found himself near the end of it. He considered various courses of action, but none of them held a strong appeal. As his words had always been his strongest means of influence, in the end he decided to handwrite Will a letter. 

This, like the handkerchief, he placed in his mailbox.

And, like the handkerchief, it went uncollected.

Impatience morphed into frustration, and Hannibal pushed his attempts at reconciliation further: a first edition, leather bound tome on the history of lobotomies, which barely fit in the mailbox. Inside the front cover, he penned a rather telling inscription in his flourishing hand. An innocuous message for anyone else, but a dangerous one if found with the right context. 

Will may have refused his numerous other gifts, but he underestimated Hannibal’s tenacity **.** He would leave it in the box until Will accepted it. Will may have a stubborn streak, but he would not chance the risk of leaving it for someone else to find.

At long last, Will proved Hannibal correct. The next morning, Hannibal found his mailbox empty. The book, gone. He returned to the house with a quiet sense of victory and relief.

Over the course of the days that followed, Hannibal waited for Will’s response, checking each afternoon between the envelopes and pages of the grocery mailer, heart in his throat. Surely his overture, inscribed with such _care_ and _sincerity,_ merited some form of a ‘thank you’ in return. But each day ended in nothing more than silence and disappointment. His frustration channeled into a directionless rage.

_How dare he._

“How _dare_ he.”

“What was that?” 

Alana’s voice startled him from his reverie. “I apologize,” he murmured, feeling his cheeks warm with uncharacteristic embarrassment. A rare occasion, for him to be caught lost in his thoughts. “I seem to have been elsewhere for a moment.”

“I noticed,” she teased, setting her cutlery down. “Where were you?”

“Ah.” He reached for the bottle of wine. “Back in Florence. I often find myself missing it, this time of year.” He topped off his glass and then settled in his chair, eyes drifting over Alana’s head to Leda and the Swan, hanging on the wall behind her.

“You’re not planning on going anytime soon, are you?” she asked, an urgency in her voice which spoke to an ulterior motive. 

“Only so far as my memories will take me,” he answered. “Were you hoping to come along?”

She laughed, delighted. “Maybe.”

“Seems I will have to give Margot a call after all,” he said, eyebrow raised. “Warn her of her wayward wife.”

Alana’s cheeks took on a red hue, mirroring the tones of her suit jacket, unbuttoned to allow room for the baby. She glowed. “ _Hannibal_.” She chuckled then, and shook her head. “No, no. I was worried you were planning to go away when we wanted you here for the baby shower.”

It took a split second for him to recall that among the unopened stack of mail piling up on his sitting room table sat a pretty envelope bearing the Verger-Bloom name. “I wouldn’t dream of missing it. Though I had been under the impression that festivities of any kind were disallowed in the stipulations of Mason’s last will and testament.”

“Turns out that there are some very specific guidelines for us to follow in order not to forfeit Margot’s inheritance,” she said, her frown melting away as she continued, ”but a get-together as small as the one we’re planning won’t be an issue. Eight people, including us. Apparently ten makes it a party.”

He gave her a smile for that joke. “Eight, then? Not nine?”

“Well,” her expression shaded with regret. “We had planned to invite Frederick, before. He heard us discussing it at your cocktail hour, so we felt a little cornered into including him. But now…”

Hannibal cast his eyes down toward his dish. “A terrible thing,” he murmured. Chilton survived his encounter, to Will’s undoubted satisfaction, and Hannibal’s disappointment. He still occupied a bed at Johns Hopkins after a complicated recovery, though his legal representation planned to transfer him to a care home soon enough. His house went up for sale, too, with remarkably few showings for such a desirable neighborhood.

“It’s as much out of mourning,” she hesitated, as if preparing for censure, “as it is in thanks.”

_Ah._ But she should know that he would not be offended on Frederick’s account. “Thanks?”

“I know,” she sighed. “It’s awful of me. I was offered his position as director at the BSHCI, and I just… there’s so much good I could do there. I couldn’t say no.”

“Quite the endorsement of your professional ability, for them to offer you the position knowing you will not be able to fill it for some months.” He gave her a smile. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Hannibal,” she said. Relieved. “It felt wrong to fill his seat.”

“I am certain he would appreciate your consideration,” Hannibal said, knowing it to be the furthest thing from the truth for Chilton as he was before, and that such gratitude lay beyond his powers of thought now. “And I count myself lucky to have made the list, among so few others.” The moment the words left his lips, it occurred to him that a certain other serial killer might number among those honored with an invitation. Alana and Margot counted him a particular friend, after all. “Who else plans to attend?”

Alana rattled off a few names, and Hannibal nodded along until she said the one he both dreaded and desperately hoped to hear. “And Will’s been flaky about his RSVP, but we’re expecting him to come. He knows he has to, if he still wants to be named Godfather.”

“Godfather?” Hannibal asked, unable to stop himself, or to censor the surprise in his tone. 

Alana shifted in her seat. “I _know_ what you’re thinking,” she said, her fingers whitening as she gripped her fork and knife almost hard enough to bend them. “You see him as unreliable, or irresponsible. But he isn’t. He really has been a very good friend to us.” She licked her lips, and the tone of her voice skewed darker when she spoke next. “A _very_ good friend. And he loves kids.”

_So she knows_. Or, she knew, about Mason, at least. Likely believed that Will had tried—and succeeded, in her mind—to pawn the murder of Mason Verger off as a Mutilator kill. He doubted she would entrust her dearly-won baby boy to an actual serial killer, after all. 

“Then I am sure that he will be there, as you say,” he said, and the confidence in her answering smile buoyed his spirits for days after.

Hannibal prepared himself with unusual care on the evening of the event. In lieu of his usual shower, he drew a bath. He opted for his straight razor when shaving his stubble, rather than the cartridge razor he used for midweek touch-ups. He chose his cologne with care and particular thought to its finishing notes, and selected everything from his sock garters to his pocket square with equal attention to the pattern, color, and fit of the suit he planned to wear. 

In actuality, he changed his mind regarding the suit at least three times over the course of the week prior, and twice more throughout the morning of the baby shower, what little that mattered. And yet, as he smoothed down his dress shirt and buttoned his jacket in front of the mirror, he could feel nothing but satisfaction.

When he met with Will again, he would make certain that the man knew how unaffected Hannibal felt by his presence. 

He arrived at the time stated on the invitation, brushing droplets of rain from his shoulders. A slow drizzle had begun midway through his walk over; not enough to merit the use of his umbrella, but enough to dot his coat. As the second-hand on his watch passed the hour mark, he reached up to ring the doorbell—

But before he could press the polished silver button, the door swung open, and Will, laughing and looking over his shoulder, stepped right through it and into Hannibal’s chest. They stumbled, Hannibal’s arms coming up to support the clumsy man and keep him off the floor. 

“Sorry, I—” Will started, still laughing, but lost all humor when he realized who he had barreled into. His lips thinned and his jaw clenched. “Sorry.”

“Perfectly all right,” Hannibal murmured. He released Will from his grip and flattened the wrinkles from his jacket. “Leaving so soon?” he asked, injecting as much humor as he felt capable of into those three short words.

“Forgot the kid’s present in the car,” Will grumbled, looking anywhere but at Hannibal— looking all around him, in fact, as though searching for an escape. 

“Ah,” Hannibal said, trying for understanding. “Let me get out of your way.” He stepped aside, and Will dodged away with as wide a berth as he could manage in the confined space under the porch roof. Hannibal observed this flight, facing back toward the house once Will hit the bottom step, to find Alana and Margot standing in the entryway, sporting expressions of befuddlement and barely restrained humor. 

“Everything alright?” cooed Margot, sickly sweet. 

Alana swatted her arm, and with one more quelling glance in her wife’s direction, waddled forward to greet Hannibal properly. Kiss, kiss. “Thank you for coming, Hannibal. Come on in,” she said, and led him by the elbow into the house. 

When Margot followed along after them, Hannibal couldn’t help but ask, “Won’t you want to show Will back inside?”

“What for?” Margot replied, eyes sparkling wickedly as she waved a casual hand through the air. “That boy has the run of the house at this point.”

The sitting room had been decorated for the party, though not in Hannibal’s preferred style. Spiraling grey and yellow crepe paper streamers for bunting, tacked along the crown molding all the way around the room. Matching balloons in the corners and hanging paper lanterns from the ceiling. His gift, delivered earlier this morning, already sat atop a table covered in a soft grey fabric with a distinctly synthetic sheen. The decorations had a fresh-from the package crispness, and while put up with care and precision, lacked whimsy and romance. 

Will’s doing, then, rather than Margot’s. She might have a vicious sense of humor, but when it came to Alana and their baby, she gained the dreamy-eyed softness of a woman in love. If he had tried his own hand to the task of decorating, then—

“Would you like a drink, Hannibal?” Margot asked as she passed him into the room. She held two glasses of champagne, and extended one toward him before he could respond in the affirmative. 

“Thank you,” he said, tipping his chin, accepting the proffered drink. 

“You’ll want to have a few of those,” Margot murmured, concealing her grin behind the rim of her glass, “if I’m any judge.”

“I understand we are meant to play games.” He’d read up on baby showers before coming. This would be his first. His other acquaintances tended toward the conservative side for this sort of event; as a man, he’d never been invited.

“No, thank goodness. Will has spared us that,” she said. “Though I had to argue him down. He’s stupidly excited about this.”

Hannibal tipped his glass toward hers before taking his inaugural sip. “Then for what will I require the fortification of _a few of these_?”

“You mean who? And there he comes now,” Margot said, “Oh no, he’s all wet.” She rushed from Hannibal’s side to help Will with the oversized, but dry box in his arms, though he shooed her away as he deposited it onto the gift table. “Did you move the car inside?”

“Yeah,” Will laughed, shaking his head the way a dog might and sending rain drops in every direction. “Your evil plan has succeeded. They’ll park me in and I’ll have to stay ‘til the end of the night.” Alana tutted in feigned offense, then, the most maternal Hannibal had ever seen her, drew Will away to tease his rain-dampened curls into some semblance of tidiness.

Hannibal’s hand twitched. He put it in his pocket. 

This moment of existing in parallel to one another seemed to extend throughout the remainder of the evening. They danced around each other, like binary stars, moving close and then parting again. Hannibal would approach the small group of people with whom Will conversed, and Will would stay long enough to excuse himself before flitting off to, find someone else to speak with. He would have become unbearably peevish, after these repeated evasions, if not for the occasional eye-contact— _actual_ eye-contact, a rarity for Will Graham. Once, he caught Will looking at him as lightning flashed outside the window, illuminating his fine features, reflecting in his clear blue eyes. For a breath, neither of them moved, and Hannibal could swear that the corner of Will’s lip curled upward before Alana redirected his attention. Thanks to these benign exchanges, in place of frustration, a low-thrumming anticipation filled him, mounting in intensity as this game of chase continued into the night. 

Even seated across from each other at the dinner table, Will made a point of speaking to everyone else around them but with Hannibal, though his eyes often strayed from his conversation partners and down to Hannibal’s hands. In most cases, he noted, when Hannibal used his knife.

It gave him cause to hope. 

Toward the end of the night, as the guests began filing out, Hannibal wandered over to the window and peeked behind the curtains, drawn for privacy in the later hour. Margot sidled up to him, popping her chin over his shoulder to assess the weather outside. 

“Still raining,” she observed. “Didn’t you walk?”

“It’s only a few blocks,” he answered, letting the curtain fall back in place and facing her fully. “And I brought an umbrella.”

Margot, looking like the cat who got the cream, stepped away from him to peek behind them. Hannibal followed her gaze to find Will standing three paces away, staring in their direction. The mailman colored, shoved his hands in his pockets and did an about-face. Hannibal smiled, and when he turned again to Margot, she had one eyebrow cocked and suggestion written in the lines around her lips. Voice louder and more insistent now, she spoke. “You’ll be soaked through in ten seconds flat, Hannibal. Even with your umbrella.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “Are you offering me to stay the night?” he teased.

“Of course not,” she answered. “I have plans for a more personal celebration, thank you.” She glanced over at Will, who must be looking their way again, because her sly smile grew. “You’ll just have to brave the storm.”

A groan, and then Will’s voice broke in. “I can— it’s not out of my way or anything. I can give you a ride.” He hesitated then, as though the name felt cumbersome on his tongue. “Doctor Lecter.”

Closing his eyes for the briefest moment to savor and store this memory away forever, Hannibal faced the welcome interloper. “That’s very kind of you, Will.”

He scratched his neck, looking awkward, and shot a glare at Margot. “S’not kindness,” he protested. “I can take a hint.”

“Well, thank you, regardless,” Hannibal said, pleasure smoothing any feathers that Will’s response may have ruffled. “I’ll be happy to accept your offer.”

Margot, glowing in victory, led them to Alana for their leave-taking, before escorting them to the garage door. She kissed Will’s cheek goodnight, whispering something in his ear that had him grumbling on his way to the car.

“Use protection,” she said to Hannibal. “Roads are slippery.”

A lesser man might have lost his composure at that. “True enough, though a little _slipperiness_ makes for a more exciting ride. As you well know, Margot.”

Margot slapped his arm but didn’t bother suppressing her scandalized laugh as she bid him farewell. 

He walked into the garage to find Will in a Volvo this time, rather than the dilapidated Toyota that had ferried him to Freddie Lounds and Frederick Chilton. Blood rushed hot in his veins as he approached the vehicle, his senses heightened. Ready to take everything in. Ready to catalogue every second together in Will’s company with nobody else to interrupt. 

“Before you say anything about that night—” Will said, as Hannibal lowered himself into the passenger seat.

But Hannibal cut him off. “We don’t have to talk about anything that you are not comfortable with. We may even sit in silence, if you wish.” He waited until Will started backing out of the garage to speak again. “Regardless, I hope you enjoyed the book.”

Will’s foot slammed on the brake pedal, and Hannibal nearly wheezed as the seatbelt dug into his chest with the sudden stop, despite their glacial pace. “Hannibal,” Will groaned, though the name rolled off his tongue with much more familiarity than the ‘Doctor Lecter’ from earlier. 

In the habit of cursing his name aloud, perhaps? 

A sucked-in breath and a tick of his jaw later, Will spoke again. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “It’s really something special.”

_Something special_ hardly began to describe it. A first edition with gilded edges, perfectly preserved, the volume could be a family heirloom or a museum piece. But that didn’t matter, not in the face of Will’s gratitude, even forced. “You are most welcome.”

The sound of the rain beating against the car surrounded them, and they exchanged no further words until Will finished backing out of the drive and turning into the street. “There’s not—” he swallowed, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight, one of his knuckles popped. “I kept expecting to hear they found something. So. Thank you for cleaning up. Not leaving anything behind. You could have.”

“I could have,” Hannibal conceded. “But allow me to allay your fears. I left nothing, and took no souvenirs of yours.” A lie. He had taken some evidence with Will’s name written all over it, but after the events of this evening, changed his mind about keeping it any longer. Or— started to. Will would have to work harder to convince him. 

“Well, thanks. Again.” He eased onto the gas pedal. If he drove his car the way he drove his mail truck, then they would reach Hannibal’s house in less than two minutes. But Will barely accelerated, his engine protesting the crawl toward the corner.

Hannibal found himself unaccountably pleased at the evident lack of hurry. “A souvenir _of yours_ ,” he amended, after a pause. “But both of us took trophies, didn’t we? Some more obvious than others,” he murmured into the shadowed space between them, illuminated by the soft yellow glow of the neighborhood lamp-posts. “Are you counting on them to believe that Frederick’s new pet managed to escape on her own?”

“She wasn’t microchipped,” Will protested. Forty feet from the stop sign on the corner, he moved his foot onto the brake again, stopping the car in the middle of the street.

“How have the dogs taken to her?” Hannibal asked, picturing the way the kitten tottered along after them, the way she leaned against Will’s leg when last Hannibal stood in Will’s living room. As they argued. 

Will’s expression softened, affectionate; a rare posture for him, a new experience for Hannibal. “She’s part of the family already,” he said. “They love her.”

Love. 

Could love be so simple? Acceptance, ready and complete, granted the moment one walked through the door? Animals did not bear the burden of right or wrong, shame or guilt. Their lives, their thoughts, were simple. Their love must be, too.

But humans differed in nearly every respect; love could not be so uncomplicated as that. No. _It’s only cannibalism if we’re equal_. _It’s only_ love _if we’re equal_. Love could not be love without true understanding, and that would never arise from merely sharing spaces and routines.

True understanding for a man of Hannibal’s character did not come cheap. It came with an intellectual curiosity, a hand and eye for art, a hunger for living and an appetite for rich and varied experience. It came with an open mind. It came with an equal capacity for darkness, an equal appreciation of the superficial nature of the morality of man, the arbitrariness of the delineations of _good_ and _evil_. 

It came with a willingness to see and be seen. 

_Ah._

And, apparently, it came with seven dogs and a new kitten in tow. 

Or, more accurately, it could. He had seen Will and wanted to possess that horror. To tune it until the chords he struck produced a melody befitting their mutual wickedness, their artistry. In Will there lay a potential for something that Hannibal had never found in another. The possibility of a genuine connection, as equals. 

_It’s only love if we’re equal_.

Hannibal’s stomach dropped; his throat constricted. “You seem to pick up family wherever you go.” He cleared the lump from his throat and shifted in his seat. “Will your home never run out of room for more?”

Will glanced in Hannibal’s direction. If he picked up on the hope that bled into Hannibal’s voice, he gave no sign. 

“It’s not a question of room, I can always make more—” but he didn’t finish that thought. Another peek at Hannibal and his voice died. He turned the corner onto Stratford, pulling his car up the driveway and stopping in front of the garage door to let Hannibal out. The whole time, it seemed to Hannibal as though whatever Will had left unsaid wanted to be spoken, the words crowding behind his teeth, knocking against them to be released into the air, so taut and tense between them. 

But they remained unspoken. Hannibal reached for the door handle when he could bear waiting for them no longer. 

“It’s not, is it? A question of room.” He licked his parched lips. “While my past overtures have not been met favorably, rest assured that I will always have space—” 

Will looked at him then, and the forthrightness of his gaze made Hannibal’s tongue clumsy. His eyes glowed, as brightly as they had when the lightning struck.

Hannibal swallowed past the knot in his throat, “—for you and yours.”

Will blinked, slow.

“Thank you for the ride, Will. Goodnight.”

Will did not wish Hannibal a good night in return, but Hannibal had one anyway. Despite the open end to their conversation, a sense of peace settled over him as he prepared for bed that evening. It followed him into his dreams; pleasant recollections of a warm body in his arms, trembling with adrenaline, their tangled fingers around the orbitoclast. A handfasting in blood. 

In his waking hours, he retained some of that peace, though every so often uncertainty reared its ugly head. Hannibal had given Will control now, in a way he never gave control to anybody. With the situation out of his hands, he had no recourse but to wait. 

At half past eight the night after the party, as Hannibal pulled into his driveway after work, his cell phone rang. He put the Bentley in park, picked up the phone from the center console with one hand, and unbuckled his seatbelt with the other.

“Good evening, Jack,” Hannibal answered.

“Doctor Lecter. Got something fresh for you.”

What a greeting, after a few weeks of silence. He’d consulted on Frederick’s case, of course, honing his skill for story-telling in the creation of that profile. He’d written something to the tune of ‘Caucasian male, in his late thirties to early fifties, troubled home life, will likely have prior offenses in his earlier youth, such as animal abuse.’ Enough to point Jack in the wrong direction, at least for a while. There had been two or three minor cases since then, but nothing _exciting_. “Something fresh,” he repeated, prompting Jack to elaborate.

“You did a great job on the profile for the Mutilator, really helpful, but uh, it could use some revisions.”

“Oh?” Hannibal tried to keep the interest from his voice. He opened the car door, and upon stepping out of the vehicle, from long habit, walked down the drive toward the mailbox. He had meant to take lunch at home as usual, and to collect his mail then, but Constance Lamont cut those plans short when she barreled into his office in tears before he could reach for his coat. It took every ounce of his willpower not to brush her aside, but he had managed it. “Another deviation from his usual style?” he asked, already on his way to the mailbox.

“Unfortunately so. Man by the name of Elmer Payne, owned a convenience store out in Hybla Valley off of Route 1. Customer thought he got lucky when the store was still open at midnight. Went to pay at the counter to find the cashier missing the top half of his skull.”

“Midnight,” Hannibal repeated, opening the little rectangular door. “Last night?” He pulled the envelopes out checking each with an idle hand. Even though Will’s petty harassment had stopped—for Hannibal, if not for the rest of the neighborhood— he had yet to shake the habit. Today’s delivery precluded excitement; it included, among others, his monthly electricity bill and an invoice from the new cleaning company he hired after ending his contract with Morton’s. 

“Yes. Our first thought was the Chesapeake Ripper because of his… _unique_ brand of humor. The missing half of his skull was upside down on the counter, with three dollars inside like some sort of macabre tip jar—”

“—fried tortilla crumbs everywhere!” 

Hannibal recognized Mr. Zeller’s voice in the background, but had his attention stolen by the flash of yellow on the last packet in his hands. A sticky note. 

“The roller grill was missing all of its taquitos,” Mr. Zeller went on. “I guess that sicko worked up an appetite. At least he paid.” 

Jack paused, and Hannibal could picture the glare he’d be directing at Mr. Zeller. “As I was saying, we believed it was the Ripper until we found another antler calling card.”

Hannibal plucked the sticky note off the envelope. Messy handwriting, the paper stained with grease. “Another Mutilator kill. His third this year,” Hannibal said, breathless, taking in the words on the small square of paper.

_Tomorrow. My place. Dinner, 9pm._

Hannibal would have to cancel some appointments.

“The Ripper also kills in threes. What is this, Doctor?”

_A reply. The offer of forgiveness._

“The Maryland Mutilator is trying to upstage the Ripper, I imagine,” Hannibal smiled as he tucked the mail away underneath his arm. “Two serial killers operating in the DMV, constantly compared to one another in the press. It’s a pissing contest.”

“Anything you can do, I can do better.” Jack mulled it over, taking the bait. “Do you think the Ripper will reply?”

“Oh,” Hannibal said, a lion in the sun, “I’m certain he will.”

~✉~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly sure we’re in the eye of the hurricane now. A little lull before… well. You already know how this goes and where. Downhill, with no helmet, and fast. 
> 
> Next update 11/6!


	7. Just Desserts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: Canon-typical unhealthy/toxic relationships, suffocation (not the kinky kind), murder, brief sexual harassment of minor, brief misogynistic language.
> 
> Approximately a 27-minute read.

~✉~

**The Postman’s Knock**

Chapter Seven

Just Desserts.

~✉~

Will already knew that with all the gifts Hannibal _insisted_ on leaving in the mailbox for him, he’d have a hard time fitting the stack of envelopes in his hand inside. Not one envelope looked like spam either; nobody had a right to receive as much non-business mail as this man did. Still. He knew they wouldn’t fit. 

And yet, Hannibal still managed to surprise him. He didn’t fight his groan on seeing the state of affairs inside. Because for all Will’s pointed efforts of ignoring his generosity, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, did not seem capable of taking hints. On top of the pile of his previous presents, sat a large book, a _tome_ , really; yet another obstruction that Hannibal tried to coerce into Will’s possession. 

He _could_ drop the envelopes on the grass next to the mailbox. Technically, this kind of gift-giving, no matter how commonplace, even around the holidays, constituted a misuse of federal property. 

But curiosity, as always, won out. 

‘As always,’ because, even though he had not accepted the other gifts—the handkerchief with its delicate embroidery, or the pressed Black-Eyed Susan wrapped in vellum and parchment (he’d looked it up: ‘encouragement, motivation, justice’ in the language of flowers, according to Wikipedia), to name a few—he had pulled each out and examined it in turn. More than once, even. Every time he opened the box to find the stack of gifts still there and growing, the ice around his heart thawed. 

But _this_. This _leapt_ over the bounds of excessive. A leather cover, delicate pages yellowed with age, edged in gold. The weight of it, heavy in his hand. He opened it, and the pages parted on an image featuring a man with a hole being drilled into his skull. ‘ _Engraving by_ _Peter Treveris, depicting trephination instrument (1525)’_ , read the caption. 

> _Dearest Will—With all our vast knowledge of the workings of the human brain, we have yet to map the way the soul connects to our bodies. The chambers of the mind are as yet unfathomable and beautiful to us, as your justice, or your cruelty. And yet on seeing either, how can we doubt the soul exists?_
> 
> _The mind is a terrible thing to waste. You know this more than most. Be well._
> 
> _H. Lecter_

Will slammed the cover shut.

As predicted, the book didn’t fit alongside all the envelopes. That’s how he justified it to himself when he ended up taking the volume home with him. But bringing it inside the house felt too much like _accepting it_ , so instead it lived on the passenger seat of his car for the days that followed. He would drive home from work and park in front of his house in Wolf Trap, flip open the cover to run his fingers over the black ink of Hannibal’s perfect lettering, then snatch his hand away as if he’d touched a live wire. 

On the day of the baby shower, though, he had too much to take with him to Margot and Alana’s house, and not enough room to leave the volume in the car. He waffled for a moment, but carried it inside, placing it on his coffee table at first before the image of torn covers and chewed papers came to mind. He settled on putting it on a high shelf instead, out of reach of the dogs. 

Car loaded, he started the drive to Hybla Valley. Out of the way to Baltimore, but home to the antique store that housed Will’s chosen gift for the Verger Blooms—an antique bassinet, beautifully restored, with mother-of-pearl inlays along the handle.

Once stowed in the trunk, only one item remained on his to-do list. _Buy a card._

_And a taquito_ , he decided, on finding three dollars in his wallet.

Will pulled up into the parking lot of a convenience store a few blocks over from the antique shop. Two figures stood outside: a greasy-haired middle-aged man, lingering too close to a fresh-faced young woman who crossed her arms over her chest, defensive, as she tried to step away.

“Don’t be like that,” the man leered, reaching a hand out to touch her hair. 

The loose gold strands slipped through his fingers as she dodged him. “Don’t touch me, you creep!” 

“What’s wrong, baby? I see the looks you give me. I got what you need.” He reached out again, this time finding purchase, fingers squeezing tight around her forearm.

Will slammed his hand against the car horn, before leaning his head out the window. “Hey! Let her go!” 

The man whipped around toward Will, beady pupils constricting. “Mind your own goddamn—” he started, and the woman seized the opportunity of his distraction to rip her arm free of his grasp and run off. The man watched her retreating figure before gathering his anger and whirling to direct it at Will. “Look what you’ve done,” he growled. “The bitch got away!”

Will unbuckled his seatbelt. He flung open the car door and hopped out, legs moving of their own accord, gunning straight for the man. “Harassing an underage girl?” he hissed and pushed him hard, the scrawny man’s back colliding with the brick wall of the convenience store. “How do you like when someone puts their hands on you?”

“Underage? She said she’s sixteen.” Will opened his mouth to remind him that they were in Virginia, where the legal age of consent was _eighteen_ , but the man cut him off. “Fuck off before I call the cops. You assaulted me in front of my own store. It’s all on camera.”

The camera, mounted high on the corner of the building, had a flimsy-looking base, a single wire, no discernable brand, and a lone, glowing red light. Nothing fancy, nothing with an internet uplink, then. Hooked up to a VCR in the office, if anything. Easy enough to handle.

“Call them. Let’s find out if you can finish dialing before I beat you unconscious.” 

That made the man pause, to search Will’s features for a bluff. “Get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.” He spat at Will’s shoes and retreated into his store. 

_So much for the card._ Will made a move to pursue and give the man a piece of his mind, but almost tripped on an object lying on the ground. A cheap billfold wallet. He picked it up to examine the contents, tipping it toward the light to see the ID behind the vinyl window. Elmer Payne, 42.

Never mind pursuit. A better idea popped into Will’s head as he smoothed out his shirt. He took the wallet with him to his car. 

_‘You are becoming impulsive.’_ The memory of Hannibal’s voice cut through the silence in his mind.

 _Shut up,_ Will thought, starting the engine. _You lost the right to call me impulsive when you unburdened Chilton of his kidneys._ Goddammit. That comeback would’ve been nice to pull out _months_ ago. 

Will picked out a card to accompany the bassinet from another store and arrived at the front step of the Verger-Bloom household hours before the party, packages of decorations crinkled in his arms, and still more waiting inside the car. 

Margot opened the door, a wickedness in her smile. “So you’re here after all. We still haven’t gotten an RSVP. Weren’t sure you’d show, so I invited my gynecologist instead,” she teased.

“Uninvite them,” Will answered, “You know I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.” No matter how he meant that, it didn’t hide his guilt. He agreed to setting up for the party, but had yet to decide if he should stay for the rest of the evening. Blame that indecision on the guest list. Hannibal made him argumentative, made him want to fight. But Will didn’t want to spoil Alana and Margot’s joy. Still, with only six other people to act as a buffer between him and Hannibal… that left a lot of room for hostility.

“Well, don’t just leave him standing out there, Margot, invite him in!” Alana called, as lovely and radiant as her wife, dolled up in a cream wrap dress cinched right above her growing belly.

This far along, it’d be wrong to have her do any of the preparations herself. Will and Margot got to work, unpacking the paper decorations under Alana’s managerial eye. Margot taped streamers over the doorways, Will sat blowing up balloons. 

“I really do hope you’ll stay for the party, Will,” Margot murmured, breaching the subject in more serious tones as they toiled. “You don’t have to worry about running into any familiar faces from your route. Aside from Hannibal, of course.”

Will paused, half-blown latex balloon deflating in his hand. She didn’t know about him and Hannibal. “That’s reassuring. I was worried my presence might upstage the celebrations. Turn them into an airing of grievances, you know. Kade Prurnell is still after me about some upturned flower pots.”

Margot grinned. “Her flower pots aren’t the only thing you’ve upturned this year. Having too much fun on the job?”

“What can I say?” Will said. “Guess the heat of the summer got to me, messed around with my head.”

“You _have_ been toning it down recently, Alana and I have noticed. Even Hannibal commented on your good behavior.”

Will held in his laugh, remembering all the packages he’d abandoned on Hannibal’s lawn. “I find that a little hard to believe.”

“You’re lucky he’s been so patient with you,” Alana scolded, entering the room with the tape she’d offered to fetch in hand. “Hannibal tolerates anything except for rudeness, and you’ve been dancing all over the line of what he will endure.”

_Hannibal tolerates anything except for rudeness._

_‘Ah, but you must see that you owe me this?’_ Hannibal had chided. _‘You took Freddie from me. It would be too much to take Frederick too…’_

Will gave himself a mental pat on the back. Thank goodness he’d invited Hannibal to participate that night. If he hadn’t? Well. Hannibal might have found that _rude,_ too.

 _Oh,_ Will thought, the realization striking him like a bolt of lightning. _That’s how he’s choosing them._

In reality, that criteria overlapped with Will’s personal code of ethics, in a sense. His last three kills had all been rude on top of being downright despicable; not to Will alone, but to others too. On either front, they’d been overdue for a permanent lesson. One which Will had been all too happy to provide. 

Would Hannibal consider Elmer Payne rude? Or did his sense of rudeness only apply to infractions against himself?

Well. What Hannibal thought didn’t matter. Elmer Payne needed to be corrected.

“Haven’t been that rude to him,” Will mumbled, coming back to himself.

“You hit his mailbox with your truck.”

“Well,” Will conceded. “Maybe just a little rude.”

_While my past overtures have not been met favorably, rest assured that I will always have space for you and yours._

The book. That _stupid book_. And now this? 

Will drove home through the storm, mind a muddle. They’d run in parallel to one another all evening, paths never meant to intersect. But then, swamped with a sense of obligation from Alana’s stern talking-to and Margot’s overt hinting, he had brought them crashing together. 

Lost in mixed feelings and recollection, he missed his exit off the highway. He’d have to get the next one and loop around again… but then he read the sign: only a few miles further to Fairfax. In a flash of inspiration, he remembered the wallet in his glove compartment. 

So, he merged out of the exit lane, and not five minutes later, sat parked in the lot in front of the abandoned warehouse he sometimes borrowed for his extracurriculars. He shook the echo of Hannibal’s voice from his ears and then picked up his phone.

“Hello?” Elmer sniveled down the line.

Will cleared his throat and, in a deeper voice than his usual tenor, asked, “Uh yeah, is this Elmer Payne?” 

“You got him, who’s this?”

“I’m calling because I think I found your wallet.”

“Wha…? I can swear I had it—” A rustling noise. “I’ll be damned, it ain’t here.”

“Called your credit card provider, they gave me your number. Thought maybe I’d ring you so you could come grab it.”

“Uhh, where can I pick it up?”

“I’m in Fairfax, but not for long. It’s getting late and I need to get home to the ol’ ball and chain.” 

A nasal laugh from Elmer. “I get you. These bitches, man, they always wanna boss people around.”

“Uh-huh.” Will tightened his fingers on the steering wheel. 

“Where in Fairfax?”

Will gave him the address, repeating it three times, because Elmer kept distracting himself talking about _these bitches_. What he lacked in attention, he made up for in speed. Elmer arrived in under twenty minutes. The headlights of the truck beamed down the drive, followed by the crunching of tires over the gravel. From his vantage point beside the warehouse, hidden from Elmer’s line of sight, Will watched his prey clamber out from his car. 

“Hello?” Elmer called out into the dark, his confident voice echoing in the empty industrial park. Dressed in a ball cap, pleather jacket, and torn jeans now, he appeared more dangerous than he had when harassing the young lady earlier in the afternoon. Less like a schlub. “It’s Elmer, I’m here for my wallet.”

Will held his breath and crept low. 

“Hello?” Elmer repeated, losing his earlier boldness. His steps slowed, but he progressed toward the building, head turning this way and that, trying to peer into the shadows. He shivered hard and drew his arms over his chest as he searched.

Will held position until Elmer came close enough that his uneven breathing filled Will’s ears. He sucked in a breath and pounced. One long leap forward, and he hooked an arm around Elmer’s neck from behind. Surprise disarmed Elmer long enough for Will to finesse his positioning to compress the airway in his grip, knock the man off his feet for added force on his windpipe. 

Elmer’s hands shot up, clawing at Will’s sleeve. He made a few garbled noises, his body jerking in an attempt to fight Will off. But Will pinned him in place, not relinquishing one iota of pressure on Elmer’s throat, until his body went limp in his arms. He took in one more ragged breath before dragging his prey into the warehouse and lost no time in restraining him with zip ties and sealing his mouth with duct tape. Elmer may seem gangly, but he weighed a ton. Will heaved in exertion as he lifted him up on the plastic-covered workbench. 

Strapped down to the bench, Elmer stayed unconscious through the rest of Will’s preparations. He made quick work of it, wanting to wrap things up before the cold settled into his bones. It took the roaring engine and high-pitched shriek of the circular saw starting up to wake Mr. Payne at last. His body spasmed as far upright as his bindings would let him, and he would have fallen to the floor if not for their secure hold. Now, he thrashed against them; a hopeless waste of energy. Will had him tied down _tight_. 

“Oh good, you’ll be awake for this,” Will said, not bothering to change his voice this time.

Elmer stilled. His eyebrows shot up in recognition, his muffled grunts stopped. His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something.

“Scream and I’ll cut off all your limbs and watch you bleed out. Blink twice if you understand.”

Elmer blinked twice. Will ripped the duct tape from his mouth.

“Please. Please don’t do this,” Elmer pleaded, breath misting in the air before his mouth, illuminated by the camping lanterns that allowed Will to see in the gloom of the warehouse.

“Oh, no. Don’t beg, it’s pathetic.”

“Please, I didn’t mean to spit at you.”

“Spit at me?” Will could laugh. “That’s not it. You don’t get it, do you?”

“Was it the chick? I promise I’ll never talk to her again!”

Will frowned. “Perverts like you who prey on teenage girls make me sick,” he admitted. “But no, that’s not it either. You were _rude_ , Elmer. And that’s unacceptable.” The words left his mouth, and he paused on hearing their echo. 

The rudeness—well. _Rudeness is in the eye of the beholder_. Sure, Elmer had it in spades, and if that had been his only crime, Hannibal would find this kill justifiable—if he ever needed a justification to kill someone. Would Will have been upset about the loss, if Hannibal had killed him for nothing more than that?

No. 

So he could forgive Hannibal for killing him, with far less impetus to do so. 

But Will usually held his prey up to a higher standard. He selected the _lowest_ of the low—the truly irredeemable. Mason, Lounds, Chilton. Did Elmer live down to that standard? Maybe not. And yet, this kill felt _right_. So it didn’t fit his usual style. So it didn’t satisfy his usual criteria. But he could be flexible. He could compromise. This kill served a higher purpose.

An olive branch. 

All doubt erased, he slapped the duct tape over Elmer’s mouth before the pig could scream.

And he did the second the circular saw started up again.

As he cut into Elmer’s skull, his warm blood trickled over Will’s frozen fingers, thawing them. More potent now than it had been with Chilton, the heat traveled up to his face, projecting his delight as Elmer’s eyes widened in panic, then rolled up until only the whites showed. He dislodged the brain, cutting away the nerves and severing them from the stem until he held the shuddering mass in his hands. 

_I don’t find beauty in the horror here._ Looking at it now, maybe he did a bit. The tissue gleamed as he submerged the brain in an ice bath.

_Frederick provoked you, so you transformed him. Any moral justification would have sufficed. You believe you are absolved, punishing those who you persuade yourself deserve it. Your hands look clean, but I suspect your pipes are lined with blood._

Hannibal, echoing in his mind again. Rudeness, justice. Hannibal didn’t seem to believe justification mattered. Bodies were bodies, nothing more. No—he cared about the escalation. About the risk. 

Would he criticize Will for recklessness again this time?

Wiping everything of evidence took a while. Except for his lapse at Frederick’s, Will made a habit of meticulous clean-up. He managed the time-sensitive tasks first, leaving the rest for later in the evening. Still, even with such a long night still before him, Will drove Elmer’s body back to the convenience store, dressed in Elmer’s jacket and ball cap, and donning gloves to prevent leaving prints everywhere. His stomach growled, reminding him of the late hour, but he ignored it. 

It took some effort to prop Elmer’s body up behind the cash register the way he wanted him, and then to balance the top half of his skull atop the counter. Nothing remained except the security cameras, but when Will stood on the counter to examine the one closest to him, he realized they were fake. Not actual cameras—just decoys, using two double-A’s to power the little red light. A paltry deterrent for mischief-makers. 

_How did he get this place insured?_ he marveled as he exited the shop, and stopped in his tracks when his stomach growled again. On impulse, he pivoted to the counter, and grabbed a takeout box near the roller grill to stuff it full of taquitos. Will removed the three bills from his wallet with his gloved hands and wiped off any latent prints.

“I’m short a few, hope you don’t mind.” Will put the money in the bowl of Elmer’s skull. His eyes darted from the mangled face to the sticky notes and pens next to the cash register. “Can I borrow these?” he asked, grabbing them from the counter. “Thanks.”

In Elmer’s soon-to-be wiped down and abandoned truck, he perched the takeout box in his lap, devouring the taquitos with one hand and scribbling on the sticky note with the other. 

He delivered the note to Hannibal the next day. Knowing the man to be fastidious in checking his mail, Will stuck the note in between two invoices and placed them into the mailbox.

_An olive branch._

The dogs crowded at the door, tails wagging, yapping with excitement a whole minute before Will heard Hannibal’s Bentley pull up. When the doorbell finally rang, little Artemis sprang up from her resting place on the couch to see the commotion for herself. Will arranged his features into a pleasant expression and opened the door. 

Wine bottle in hand, Hannibal stood smiling on the porch, dressed in an olive cashmere overcoat, the sky dimming behind him. “Good evening, Will.”

“Evening, Doctor.” Will stepped aside to let Hannibal in. “Come in. God, it’s cold.” He inhaled as Hannibal passed into the living room, catching the scent of bitter wind, and the lingering aroma of a fresh shower. 

The dogs pawed at Hannibal’s legs, curious snouts nudging against his trousers. From his jacket pocket, Hannibal produced a rubber chew toy and tossed it toward the living room. Mutts being mutts, they scrambled after it, but Artemis stood firm, meowing up at him, ears drawn back, as if to intimidate.

 _Good girl,_ Will thought, closing the door behind them. He reached for the bottle in Hannibal’s outstretched hands. When their fingers brushed together, Will snatched the wine away. This garnered no reaction other than an infinitesimal twitch at the corner of Hannibal’s lips.

“Thanks,” Will mumbled, placing the wine on the table next to the window. “I’ll be right back.” He left Hannibal standing near the doorway, shrugging off his coat, and returned with two glasses clinking in one hand and a plate in the other, which he set down alongside the wine. Will removed a corkscrew from his pocket and spared a glance at Hannibal, who bent down to scratch Artemis under the chin, his coat draped over his left forearm. “Uh—you can put it on the chair over there.”

Hannibal gave Artemis’ head a final pat before she trotted away. “She fits right in here, at home with you,” he said, then moved to follow Will’s instructions. 

“Of course. She’s family,” Will said, distracted by how elegant Hannibal looked, dressed down in a dark gray sweater.

Their eyes met as Hannibal folded his coat and leaned over to place it on the seat of the closest leather chair. Hannibal’s gaze lingered, trailing up and down Will’s body, then flicked over to the table. Piled atop of the plate at its center sat a tower of steaming mini egg rolls, fresh out of the conventional oven. 

“Hope you weren’t expecting anything too fancy,” Will scratched at his neck. “Can’t remember the last time I played host for anyone.”

Hannibal walked over to the plate and picked up an egg roll and studied it, pinched between two fingers. “I confess it has been awhile since I have eaten one of these,” he said. “Though I made myself quite familiar with them upon first arriving in the States. Particularly during my residency at Johns Hopkins. All those long nights.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” Will snorted, uncorking the bottle. As he poured, the wine looped from the bottle and swirled into the glass, perfuming the air with notes of blackcurrant. “The way Alana and Margot speak of your dinner parties, I’m surprised I haven’t seen your kitchen on the Michelin Guide.” Will waited for Hannibal to finish eating the egg roll, taking in the way his expression shifted from nostalgia to a thinly veiled disgust, before handing him the glass. Hannibal took it gratefully. Will raised his own in a toast. “To evolving tastes.”

Hannibal’s head tilted toward his shoulder. A charming gesture that assured Will that Hannibal noted his meaning. They both liked their games. With a small upward quirk in the corner of Hannibal’s lips, he lifted his glass in agreement. 

Will took his sip, licked the droplet of wine from his lips, daring not to break eye contact. Time slowed, and they remained still, their glasses still suspended in the air. His breath moved through him, and Hannibal’s followed it in echo. Electricity passed between them the way the wine had arced from the bottle. 

Will averted his gaze and settled his glass on the table. “You can—” he bit his nails into the flesh of his palms, the sting helping him refocus. “You can make yourself comfortable. I still have some cooking to do.”

“Allow me to help. I’m an experienced sous chef,” Hannibal teased.

 _This again._ “I’d probably bungle it just to spite you if you were watching over my shoulder.”

“More than the appetizer?” This with a disdainful sniff.

“Oh, far, far worse.” A beat. “And I scraped the freezer burn off before I baked them.”

Hannibal screwed up his nose but retreated to the sitting room, Buster trailing after him to join the rest of the dogs.

Will drew his chef knife from the knife block. It nearly tumbled from his fingers when the sound of his piano drifted into the kitchen. A piece he didn’t recognize—something both dreamy and melancholy. Though technically alone, Hannibal’s presence still drifted around him, tangible as a touch, with each sweetly reverberating note. 

A little indulgent maybe, but he closed his eyes and let the music envelop him. But only for a moment. He tightened his grip on his knife and got to work. 

The small paring knife handled much like the Benchmade blade he took hunting with him when he was little. Familiar. He’d had the brain soaking since he collected it; now, he drained it and sliced off what remained of nerve endings and blood vessels from the base. A quick poach in a simmering broth, and once the soft tissues firmed up in the heat, he scooped the organ to dry on the paper towels he’d set on the counter. Then came the seasoning, added with a generous hand, before lowering the offal into a frying pan where it hissed in the oil. After frying the brain, he caramelized it with pats of butter and a dash of lemon juice.

His phone sat on the counter, the recipe glowing up at him from the screen in encouragement. Will might not be an elegant chef, but brains had a similar delicate consistency to fish; he knew to be gentle with them, to monitor the heat in the pan. 

He wouldn’t ruin _two_ courses in a row, even if the first was—at least a little—intentional.

Not that he’d ever sat at Hannibal’s table, but everything about Hannibal screamed that he’d be fussy with his plating. Puree smears, balsamic drizzles, artfully sprinkled finishing salt. In rebellion, Will slopped the potato puree still warming on the stove into the middle of each dish, not bothering to clean the edges of the plate. The brains came next, and the sauce he ladled on over both without reserve. His one concession to Hannibal’s refined sense of the aesthetic came in the form of a sprinkle of chopped parsley over the top.

Bad plating didn’t count as ruination, but it satisfied Will’s impulse to annoy his guest as much as possible. 

When he came out into the living room, Hannibal had moved the table with the egg rolls in front of the fireplace. Will’s reading chair had been pulled up to one side, his desk chair to the other. In the center of the table, he had arranged an assortment of Will’s fishing lures tucked under the edges of a wooden plate, a partially melted candle burning on top; a far nicer centerpiece than anything Will could have contrived. He had also located Will’s silverware and napkins, and fashioned some makeshift place-settings for them. 

_Making himself right at home_. And then, hot on the heels of that thought, a realization: _I didn’t notice the music stop_. “Table looks great,” he murmured. “Dinner’s ready.”

Hannibal, standing at the bookshelf with one of its treasures in his hands, returned the volume with care to its place before coming to the table. He took in a deep breath as he peered down at the dishes Will held, and a slow, cat-like grin curled the corners of his mouth. He took his seat, and Will announced their meal as he set the plate down in front of him.

“Caramelized cervelle with capers and beurre noisette.” He used his most proper French pronunciation, though it smacked more of the French Creole he’d learned outside of school than it did of the version Mrs. Bisette had taught him inside it. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal replied, rotating his plate in front of him to find the most attractive aspect, despite its messy composition. He poked one bit of brain onto his fork and studied it for a moment before raising his eyes to Will’s, who only then realized he’d been staring, and gave him a warm smile. “A compliment to your butcher,” he said. “Unlike the egg rolls, this seems exquisitely fresh.” Hannibal’s lashes fluttered to his cheekbones in pleasure when he took a bite of the cervelle. 

“Recipe called for calf’s brains,” Will murmured, raising his own forkful to his lips. “Had to get a bit inventive. No calf around, but plenty of pigs.”

“Elmer Payne,” Hannibal surmised. “Jack called me about him from the crime scene.”

“That’d be the one.”

A soul-deep satisfaction glimmered in the profundities of Hannibal’s eyes. “The FBI didn’t know quite what to do with themselves.” He reached for his wine and swirled it in his glass. “So unlike the Maryland Mutilator. The kill and its preparation completed offsite, the staging markedly more theatrical, the motive more opaque. And in Virginia, for once.”

“I bet you have your own ideas,” Will said, still staring, still aware, and not planning to do anything about it. Hannibal didn’t seem to mind the attention, anyway. 

“I confess I do,” the doctor said. “I’m much more interested in hearing yours.”

“As a keen judge of character?” Will quipped, cocking a brow. He took another bite of his meal, finding this bite more delicious than the last, what with Hannibal’s delight so obvious, radiating off of him in waves. 

“Just so.”

“A killer like that,” Will started, playing at thoughtfulness as he reached for his glass of wine. “An intelligent psychopath… hardly needs convincing to take a life. Means and opportunity might be enough.”

“But the Mutilator is not a thoughtless killer. Not merely doling out murder for his own entertainment. He is an artist. He has a point of view.”

Quite a compliment from the _real_ artist in the room. One which would have made him boil in indignation not so long ago, but now made his fingers fidget and his ears grow warm. After Elmer’s death, the local newspaper touted him as a well-loved member of the community, referencing his generous donations to the church and past missionary efforts. Elmer the saint, taken too soon, for all Hannibal and the FBI knew. 

But Hannibal _would_ know better. He knew _Will_ better. “Even artists need guidance, a push in the right direction. Maybe our Mutilator has found a confidant.”

Hannibal lifted his fork to his mouth and savored another bite of the meal Will prepared for him. “Or, perhaps more than a confidant?” He added, so casual in his delivery that Will almost missed it.

Will swallowed hard. He shifted in his seat, a sudden aching pressure making it uncomfortable to keep his legs crossed. A desperate need arose to focus elsewhere, anywhere but Hannibal’s deep-set brown eyes, probing and searching his every movement. Never mind the insinuation. As things usually did when he and Hannibal were together, this whole evening had gotten out of hand. He’d meant to extend an olive branch, smooth things over so they could coexist in peace. A return to normalcy. But the music, and the table-setting, the way Hannibal moved around like he owned the place, the way he looked at Will, the way he spoke in those dulcet tones, controlling the rhythm of their conversation… His eyes screwed shut again before opening to focus on the impromptu centerpiece on the table, the way the candle flame danced. How the wax dripped over the edges and onto the wooden candle plate.

Hannibal noticed Will’s shift of attention. “I may mention that while you keep your home quite clean, the candle had rather a thick layer of dust on it.”

Will turned that one over. _Fuck it_ , he thought, a devious grin blooming on his lips. “Oh, that one? It might be eight years old by now? Dust it off whenever I bring a date home.” He paused for effect. “For sex.”

Hannibal set his fork down on his empty plate. “Hardly the picture of romance. One candle, rendered scentless with age, the only ambiance to spur the frenzied fumbling with buttons?”

Will’s smile grew larger. “I make sure to blow it out before it gets to that point. Shouldn’t leave a fire unattended.” Will expected humor to light Hannibal’s expression, but his posture stiffened instead.

“I find it interesting that fire safety is where you draw the line in all the perilous avenues down which you drive your life,” Hannibal said, his tone clipped.

“Hard to forget lessons taught as a boy. Don’t eat any wild berry you find in the bushes. Keep your eye out for alligators around water. Finish what you started,” Will rattled off. He put down his fork too and leaned back in his seat.

“Universal lessons from a simpler time. Save for the alligators, perhaps.” 

“Alligators. Big bad wolves.”

It occurred to Will then how little he knew of Hannibal, with most of his knowledge of the doctor hearsay from Alana and Margot. The opportunity to discuss Hannibal’s upbringing evaded them throughout their tumultuous relationship. Will imagined a little boy, as dark-hearted and passionate as the man before him now, the image only dissipating when Hannibal stood up to collect the plates. Will’s hand shot out, signaling for him to sit down, but Hannibal remained standing, resolved instead to refill their wine glasses. 

With a sigh, Will stood to bring along the last and final dish—dessert. Crème brûlée in two ceramic cups.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, “I suppose the egg allergy you confessed to me has magically resolved?”

“Careful. It’s not too late for me to send you to bed without dessert,” Will said, and placed the delicate desserts on the table, one for Hannibal and one for himself.

Hannibal took up a spoon, and with one more smoldering look, said, “What meal, in such excellent company, can be considered complete without dessert?”

~✉~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you call a skull without a brain? A no brainer.  
> No? Ok, we’ll show ourselves out.  
> When we said “keep going downhill from here,” at the end of the last chapter, we meant downhill… into the gutter.  
> Please look forward to a fuck-ton of porn in the next update, on 11/20!


	8. Come Prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-typical unhealthy/toxic relationships, explicit sexual content. 
> 
> Approximately a 25-minute read.

~✉~

**The Postman’s Knock**

Chapter Eight

Come Prepared.

~✉~

Hannibal took up his spoon, and with one more smoldering look, said, “What meal, in such excellent company, can be considered complete without dessert?”

Rather than answer, Will dug into the brulee and took a bite. He tried to ignore the heat radiating between them, almost certain that Hannibal’s eyes fixed not on his face, but on his mouth. Suddenly it became much more difficult to swallow. 

He finished his dessert in five spoonfuls. When Will looked up, Hannibal had too, and now favored his wine glass. He held it by the stem, the rim of it hovering near his lips before he tipped it back. Will, trying not to stare, distracted himself in mimicry of his motions, taking a sip of his own. The wine went down much easier than the custard, without Hannibal’s gaze pinning him to the chair, and warmed him from the inside as it slid down his throat and into his pleasantly full stomach.

The candle burned low, half of its original size, globs of wax spilling down its sides to gather at the base. If Will let it burn any longer, he might need to buy a new one. He lamented its inevitable loss; he had bid adieu to various partners with the cliched morning-after breakfast, but the candle remained with him. Will bent to blow it out, but a strong hand grabbed his forearm, dragging him from the table. He found himself face-to-face with Hannibal, unable to avoid eye contact at such a proximity.

Hannibal leaned closer to his ear, his tone low. “You must not bring many dates home,” he teased. “Perhaps you and I can retire your candle together.”

The aching sensation from earlier returned in full force. Were his pants _always_ this tight? When seated, he could discreetly readjust himself, but not now, with Hannibal’s unwavering attention on him. _Please_ , Will hoped, _please be looking anywhere else._ And then, to distract them both, Will cleared his throat and stepped away. “I—uh,” he said, and Hannibal allowed him to slip from his fingers. “Fine. It’s just a candle.” 

He busied himself with gathering the dessert cups off the table. Hannibal’s steady footsteps followed him to the kitchen. Will had left the pots to soak in the sink, and, sure that Hannibal would have an _opinion_ on the subject, toyed with asking him to stay in the living room. If he did, maybe that would encourage him to resume playing the piano, something soft and melodious with which to calm his nerves. But he decided in favor of the prospect of help with the dishes, regardless of Hannibal’s inevitable judgment that he didn’t _clean up as he went_. The image of Hannibal trailing after him like one of his dogs through the house, too, made him bite back a smile. And like a dog, Hannibal wanted to come along for the ride, be it to accompany him for clean-up duty or to lobotomize Chilton in his own dining room.

Will placed the glasses into the dishwasher before rolling up his sleeves and plunging his hands in the soapy water, ready to tackle the pots. Once scrubbed of all residue, he moved to stick the dripping stock pot on the stovetop. Hannibal, armed with a dish towel, blocked the way, his own sleeves pushed up to expose his sturdy forearms. 

“Thanks,” Will murmured, turning back to the sink as Hannibal set about his task of drying. “Can’t remember when that pot last saw any use. Don’t get much free time these days. I try not to look for more chores to do, so it’s TV dinners and take out mostly.”

_Stop it, you’re babbling._

Hannibal hummed, pleased. Will reasoned it was probably the first concession about himself that did not reek of murder or sarcasm; a simple fact of life, context to the nature of his character. 

“And for your dogs?” Hannibal said. “I suspect they will be happy with most fare, but something tells me you would not subject them to the same treatment you tolerate for yourself.”

Will grinned. “Only the best for them. I choose what to put into my body, they can’t.”

They continued in this fashion, Will handing off dripping cookware for Hannibal to dry or deposit in the dishwasher. A welcome distraction, and a domestic reprieve from the simmering tension between them. And a chance for him to gather his thoughts. After Hannibal toweled off the last pot, he disappeared into the living room, leaving Will to set the kitchenware away.

Will returned to find the seating arrangements moved around once more. Hannibal had started a low fire in the hearth and centered the still-burning candle atop the mantle. He stood in front of this cozy display, their wine glasses in hand, filled for the third time. He extended Will’s into his ready grasp, and their fingers brushed as they had when Hannibal gifted him the bottle by the front door. Electricity coursed up Will’s arm again, but he did not yank his hand away. He didn’t want the wine to spill, sure, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted to enjoy those sparks either.

“I have to say, I’m both impressed and disturbed. You wasted no time rearranging my furniture to suit your tastes,” Will said, sipping his wine. He’d already sobered up from dinner, but the glow from the fire in combination with the alcohol made his body vibrate with warmth all over again. 

Hannibal drew closer. “I’m inclined to ask what you know of my tastes, but then I recall you invited yourself into my home. I confess I am curious to hear your impressions.”

“Let’s see,” Will tapped his chin in pretend thought. “Excessive, for one. Pompous. Ostentatious. Rather flamboyant, actually.”

Hannibal’s eyes lit up with amusement, unoffended. “Did it bother you?”

“It did irritate me,” Will admitted. “I don’t...hate it. It’s just not my style.”

“One can appreciate the beauty of something without compromising one’s own taste.” A pause. “I must congratulate you again on a splendid meal. Taking a cut so commonly thought of as unappetizing, and giving it elegance and flavor.”

“That’s compliment for more than my cooking,” Will observed, his lips tugging into a smile.

“More than the egg rolls, which I would rather forget, it made a fine appetizer for this dinner. The scene you set.” His tone lowered in pitch, shimmering with suggestion. Dark promise. 

Will shivered. 

As one, their bodies gravitated away from the fire and over to the couch. Hannibal found his seat first, with that same proprietary air that enabled him to help himself to the piano and rearrange the furniture. 

The couch still had that squeak of newness when their weight settled onto it. A new addition to the living room, as Artemis had wasted no time in scratching his furniture into ribbons. Now seated, he contemplated how he could get closer, or if Hannibal would cross the empty space between them first. _The old yawn-and-stretch?_ But no. The approach his father had advocated when Will first started dating seemed woefully transparent, juvenile even, when considering the man beside him. 

To fight off the temptation to act, he nursed his wine, pulling it closer to his chest. 

The cushions dipped as Hannibal rearranged himself, angling his body toward Will. “You can relax. I have no plans to steal your wine away from you.”.

A laugh burst from Will’s lips. A genuine laugh that caught both parties off guard, brought their eyes to meet each other’s, made tension simmer in the air between them. Even so, he didn't want to mess this up; he took a sip to buy himself some time. 

The transient pressure of Hannibal’s knee against his nearly made him spit out his mouthful. “I think—” he shot Hannibal a dirty look, then centered himself, resuming their previous topic of discussion. “Elmer was a summer cicada. He droned his noise. I just helped him shed his skin.”

“Leaving a husk behind,” Hannibal murmured. 

“He was always going to end up a husk,” Will grumbled. “If not by my hands, then maybe by yours.”

A playful tilt to Hannibal’s head as he considered that. “What thoughts coursed through your mind, in the moment that you ended him?”

“It felt… just,” Will said, the words spilling from his lips without inhibition. He felt warm all over. The wine, the fire, Hannibal’s heat beside him. “But more than that. I liked it.”

“No longer merely a grudging errand, accomplished in the name of justice?”

“Not grudging,” he agreed, trailing his gaze over Hannibal’s long leg, where it crossed over the opposite knee, jumping to his study grip on the delicate stem of his glass. The veins running along the backs of his hands, the muscle in his forearms, still exposed from his tenure as a dish-dryer. “But gratifying.” 

He swallowed. Their eyes met.

“Last time I felt like that, I was watching you excise Chilton’s kidney.” At the time the sensation had sickened him. Or—the realization that he’d enjoyed it sickened him. Not so much, anymore.

The tick upward in Hannibal’s lips at that confession made Will’s cheeks burn. “Did you think of me when you killed Elmer Payne?” he asked, leaning forward to set his wine onto the coffee table. “Of how I would have done it? How I would have displayed him?”

If ever there were a time for honesty, it would be now. “These days thoughts of you are often close by.” Like wading into a lake, the ripple of the water's surface as a fish passes by. “I thought about how you were choosing them.”

Hannibal’s intense focus honed in on him to the exclusion of everything else. “Did my motivations inform yours?”

Hands suddenly sweaty, Will set his glass on the side table and wiped his palms on his jeans. “Maybe not ‘informed’. ‘Influenced’ fits better, I think.”

The cushions shifted, Hannibal’s movements so slow and controlled that Will would barely have noticed the shrinking distance if he hadn’t been looking. Closer. Closer and closer. “And that change in approach… gratified you.”

Will’s breath caught, transfixed. He nodded.

“How gratifying.”

A nervous laugh escaped Will’s lips. Hannibal’s current advances felt _gratifying_ too, though he wasn’t moving fast enough for Will. Never mind a yawn-and-stretch; Will reached out to bridge the gap between them, palm settling on the couch cushion next to Hannibal’s leg, and then, one finger at a time, crawling up the luxurious fabric to squeeze right above his knee.

Time slowed then, until his surroundings moved at the same pace with which Hannibal leaned in. Will blocked out everything but the sight of his hand on Hannibal’s leg, until Hannibal’s long fingers slid into view, coming down to entwine with Will’s. He chanced a look up. Hannibal’s eyes bored into him, fathomless and dark, and he lost his breath.

“That’s first base…?” Will managed before crossing the final bit of distance between them, and touching their lips together. 

Just once. A soft, gentle pressure.

Their foreheads pressed together then, breath intermingling. Will gripped tighter on Hannibal’s knee, and when Hannibal’s free hand reached up to wind into the curls at Will’s nape, ‘soft’ and ‘gentle’ flew out the window.

An urgent press of lips, the tip of a tongue; strong fingers tugging hair. Hannibal untangled from Will’s grip, touching Will’s chest momentarily before pushing him down hard onto the couch. He fell backwards; Hannibal prowled up the length of his body, his leg settling between Will’s thighs, supporting himself above.

Too few points of contact.

Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s neck and tugged him down. Hannibal’s presence had weight—Will wanted to feel that weight against him. 

And Hannibal seemed happy enough to oblige. He dipped low, his finger dragging the neckline to expose his collarbone. “Ah—” Will moaned as Hannibal’s lips skimmed down to the clavicle. 

A wet sniffing sound, and Will turned to make direct eye contact with Winston. He released his hands from around Hannibal’s neck and propped himself up on his elbows.

“One second.” Will said, putting two fingers in his mouth and whistling. The dogs sat at attention. He whistled again and they trotted off towards the kitchen. Artemis, ears flat to her head, seemed poised to jump on the couch instead, but Winston rounded back and, grabbing her gently by the scruff, dragged her along with the rest of the pack.

Hannibal watched them go, laughter in his eyes. “I must admit I am impressed.” 

Will shifted uncomfortably underneath Hannibal. “Uh, yeah. It’s always awkward for me, with them watching...”

A pause. “Watching...?” 

“My, uh, intimate encounters.”

Hannibal descended again to press his lips against Will’s throat. “A robust sex life provides both emotional and physical benefits,” he hummed against his skin. 

Will’s mind began to race; he tried to pick a sensation and focus on it. The painful stiffness that kept brushing with Hannibal’s movements, Hannibal’s damp breath, ghosting over him, his heaviness weighing into Will. “Thanks Doctor,” Will said, then added, “Nothing sexier than sex ed.”

Hannibal parted his lips, tongue darting out to taste Will’s skin on the side of the column of his neck. He drew the flesh there into his mouth until there was no doubt in Will’s mind he would wake the next morning to a purpling bruise. Then a sharp pain, unmistakably a bite. Will’s hands flew to Hannibal’s shoulders, pushing him off. “Ouch! What—?”

Hannibal lifted his head, and his wild expression killed the objection on Will’s lips. _Possession_ , written all over his face. _Must not have liked what Chilton got up to._ He racked his brain to say something, anything. “Glad my uniform calls for a collared shirt,” Will joked, “Or else how would I explain this at work?”

“You’d manage. In terms of secrets that threaten your employment, I expect it would be among the least of your problems.” Hannibal said, leaning back to admire his work, brush his thumb over it. “My design looks beautiful on you. A shame to hide it.”

Will could not remember the last time he’d gotten this worked up. He threw his arm over his face so that Hannibal couldn’t see his expression. “You can’t—”

“Do you want me to stop?” 

“I—I—” Will stammered. He half expected Hannibal to move his arm away. But he remained quiet, patient in his wait for an answer. Will took the moment to compose himself. Although no stranger to intimacy, he felt almost like a timid virgin again, not quite used to this level of attention from a partner. 

Not used to this level of attention from a partner at all, actually. The quick fucks he’d part enjoyed and part endured over the years involved the bare minimum of conversation or eye contact. Hannibal apparently didn’t settle for that kind of frantic liaison. He wanted Will engaged.

“I don’t want you to stop.” Will admitted and removed his forearm from its position over his face.

Hannibal's gaze devoured every inch of visible skin. He bent to capture Will’s lips in another searing kiss, with nothing cautious or reserved about it. Will clung to Hannibal’s shirt to steady himself, then wrapping back around Hannibal’s neck to pull him closer. That cruel mouth swallowed each of Will’s groans, increasing the pressure until Will’s lips swelled with the ravenous attention from Hannibal’s kisses. 

He had not realized how hard he’d gotten until Hannibal cupped Will over his jeans. Will’s mind went blank, incapable of thought past the sensation of Hannibal’s palm rubbing against him. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, not sure how much more it would take before he spilled into his boxers. Heat flooded his cheeks, his entire body ablaze. “God—it’s too hot in here.”

Hannibal sat up on his knees. “Allow me,” he said. His elegant fingers worked to unbutton Will’s flannel shirt. The first button undone, he moved to the second. Not fast enough. Will attempted to push Hannibal’s out of the way, to finish the job himself, but to no avail. Hannibal wanted to take his time.

Will pushed for conversation to fill the silence. “What changed your mind?”

“Hm?” 

“You planned to kill me. What happened?” 

“You always piqued my curiosity, Will. I only doubled down on my plans to kill you when you began your little investigation into my affairs. You stole Mason from me, and then you went after Miss Lounds.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Will grumbled.

“Intentional or not, it was unacceptable. That is, until I saw you work with my own eyes.” With the last button undone, Hannibal opened Will’s shirt. His hand brushed against bare skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “You left me breathless. More beautiful than I could have ever imagined. I needed to see it again.”

“You followed me to Frederick’s house.”

Hannibal moved to Will’s belt and unbuckled it. “I did, and it was the single most stimulating experience of my life. The things you do to me.” Rougher now, more insistent, he helped Will out of his shirt, and to Will’s surprise, tossed the garment onto the floor. So much for his stringent attitude towards order and cleanliness.

Frantic fingertips worked their way to the buttons on Hannibal’s shirtfront—thank the devil the man had forgone his ridiculous waistcoats tonight—but Hannibal swatted him away, redirecting Will to hold onto his shoulders. Will got the hint—he ran his fingers up the sides of Hannibal’s neck and plunged them into his hair. 

Hannibal didn’t need any persuasion; his kisses trailed across Will’s jawbone and down the side of his neck, tongue laving the many bite marks and bruises he’d impressed there already. He pecked along Will’s clavicles, curled fingers tracing the outline of Will’s shoulder scar again, digging his nails into the flesh there as though to carve it out and make it anew in his own design. 

Will gasped, back arching off the couch cushions, and then panted when this new curvature of his spine brought his groin in direct contact with Hannibal’s thigh. Or had Hannibal slid it up higher, to achieve that effect? Will couldn’t contain himself. He balled his hands to fists in Hannibal’s hair, drawing his head back, eliciting a deep moan from the doctor’s throat. 

Now that leg did move where Will trapped it between his own thighs. Will’s breath stuttered as he canted his hips to follow its movement. He grew so distracted by that delicious pressure that he released Hannibal’s hair, and almost didn’t notice as his lips traveled down over his fluttering stomach, as Hannibal’s fingers expertly undid the button at the front of his jeans before lowering the zipper.

He did notice, however, when Hannibal licked a hot stripe from his navel down to the elastic of his boxers. He sucked in an urgent breath, abdomen tensing, immediately self-conscious, only for Hannibal to pull a weak moan from his lips when his fingers curled around the waistband of his jeans and in one movement yanked them down to his knees. 

The desire to kick his jeans off the rest of the way overtook him, but Hannibal apparently wanted him supine and lax, a melted puddle of wax on the couch; he pinned Will’s hip to the cushion to force him to stay in place and negotiated the jeans off of his legs with his free hand. 

_Used to stripping dead bodies_ , Will thought, a grin curling his lips. 

“Finding something funny?” Hannibal asked, pausing after discarding the jeans to push his sleeves a little further up his forearms. 

Still fully dressed, but with his hair disheveled and his lips red from kissing, and with the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, he looked so delicious that Will couldn’t find it in himself to complain. “You’re good at this,” Will answered, sliding his hand down his belly to palm himself through his boxer briefs.

“Mm,” Hannibal murmured, eyes following the movement of Will’s hand, then reaching to grip Will’s wrist and pin it to his side, out of the way. “You’ll find out how good in a moment,” he said, before bringing himself down over him once more. 

If he’d ever suspected that Hannibal was a demon from hell, the heat of his mouth as it closed over his clothed cock confirmed it. A pathetic whimper bubbled out from behind Will’s lips, and he clenched his hand where Hannibal pinned it down. The other floated in the air before coming down, gently, on the crown of Hannibal’s head. 

Those charmingly irregular teeth scraped, teasing, against the cotton blend, and in a moment of frenzied panic Will’s whole body stiffened in preparation for a bite. For flesh to sever and blood to spill. Not a terrible way to go out, but he would have liked to come first, at least. 

And Hannibal’s teeth did come together, not over Will’s body, but the waistband of his shorts. And with that bite, a throaty, teasing chuckle. As though he knew exactly where Will’s thoughts had turned. He eased the tension from Will’s body by petting over his thighs as he dragged the boxer briefs down, and then ratcheted it back up again with his hot breath, close, so close to Will’s skin where he wanted it most. 

Will shook. So taut, he might implode. He might _explode_ , and Hannibal hadn’t even touched him properly yet. 

“Hannibal,” he whimpered, the moment the man’s lips, feather-light, swept up the bead of precome, to spread it over the head. 

And then all at once, Hannibal took him in.

A startled gasp and Will’s eyes screwed themselves shut. He clutched Hannibal’s hair tight enough for his knuckles to press into Hannibal’s scalp. Hannibal’s tongue undulated around him, his grip at the base of Will’s cock loosening and tightening with the change in pressure inside of his mouth. 

Hannibal pulled off with a sloppy, wet pop of his lips, resuming his prior teasing with kisses and licks, mouthing along the shaft. But his hand had disappeared, and Will mourned the loss of that sweet grip. 

The sound of plastic tearing ripped Will from his mindless enjoyment, and his eyes cracked open. “Jesus—you brought—”

Hannibal sat up, holding the large packet of surgical lubricant up for Will to see. “Lift your hips,” he said, reaching for one of the throw pillows that Aunt Marybeth had embroidered for Will in his college days, and tucking it under his hips as he levered them off the couch. 

“You brought _lube_ ,” Will accused, adjusting his positioning, eyes still riveted to that packet, as Hannibal squeezed a generous dollop onto his fingers. “Did you come here _expecting_ to get laid?”

Granted, Will may have also been expecting that very thing when he made the invitation. 

Hannibal smirked, but shook his head. “One never expects; but it is best to be prepared, regardless.”

His mouth ghosted over Will’s cock again, his clean hand opening Will’s thigh wide, pushing his leg off the couch enough to give him access further down. 

Will’s breath stuttered when Hannibal pressed a hot kiss to his inner thigh, then nosed at his balls. “What is this,” he sighed, “an excerpt from the boy scout’s handbook?”

“Prizing preparedness is not unique to that organization,” he murmured against Will’s skin.

“Not the boy scouts,” Will moaned, Hannibal’s fingers, wet with lube, pressing between his cheeks. “Then who?”

“Benjamin Franklin, Coleridge, Shakespeare—”

“That’s enough, stop talking,” Will said, pushing down on the back of Hannibal’s head.

Hannibal took Will back into his mouth as his laughter bubbled up, and the vibrations of his voice sent frissons of electricity coursing through Will’s body. The warm pleasure of Hannibal’s tongue distracted him from the uncomfortable sensation of pressure from the wet slide of that lubricated digit. 

Not that he’d never had male partners before, but _this_ had not been a part of what they did together. He sucked in another uncontrolled breath when Hannibal swallowed him down to the hilt, his finger nudging its way inside his body, knuckle deep. 

“ _Ah_ —” he squirmed when Hannibal’s finger began to move in concert with his mouth. “That’s—” 

_Weird. Uncomfortable. Unpleasant?_

_“--good_ , _”_ he gasped, finally finding the word he was looking for.

All that pressure, and he felt himself, despite his persistent desire and Hannibal’s attentions, begin to flag. 

But Hannibal didn’t seem to mind. He slowed to a lazy suckle, while his finger continued its unyielding caresses. Pressing forward, circling, _widening_. He approached his task the way he had approached Will the night that they had communed over Chilton’s fate—with a relentless need to see the work through, proper and thorough. 

And, though he’d wanted nothing more for Hannibal to shut up before, when Hannibal released Will’s cock and their eyes met, when he spoke now—“look how beautiful you are,” and then on a sigh, “how beautifully you take my fingers.”—Will’s body gave in to Hannibal’s persistent ministrations. 

He almost saw stars, he got hard again so fast. 

Then— _God, what—_

Then he _did_ see stars, as Hannibal’s fingers—two, now, when had that happened?—finally found their object. He tried to cover himself, to take himself in hand, to _do something_ , —when Hannibal took his wrist and pinned it once more to the couch before leaning in to put his mouth back to work. With that unabating pressure inside of him, and the waves of heat that rippled over Will’s skin with every pass over his prostate, Hannibal’s mouth, that boiling inferno, became almost too much for Will to bear. 

“Hannibal—” he started, his abdomen clenching, his thighs tensing. 

Hannibal petted his inner thigh before pressing it even wider, his fingers burrowing deeper into him. A pleased hum in his throat as his tongue lapped around Will’s cock.

Those terrible vibrations undid him. 

_Too much, too much!_

“ _Hannibal_ —” 

He fought it, but Hannibal cupped him, rolling then tugging, gently, gently, and Will lost all sense. He made a noise—something guttural though his lips moved around a word—his vision sparked, his fingers and toes curled—

And then, all of that mounting tension snapped.

Will came. Harder than he’d ever come in his life.

He could still feel his voice echoing in his throat, still see the outlines of the stars that had burst behind his eyelids, when he came back to himself. His breaths still rapid, his heart still beating like a hummingbird’s wings, faster in bursts as the aftershocks whited out his vision once more. 

Hannibal, ravenous, had taken every last drop, and worked him over, drawing out his pleasure. He knew—maybe he felt the tension coming back into Will’s quadriceps, or sensed the minute shift in Will’s hips to pull away—when Will started becoming oversensitive, and released him from the sweet suction of his lips. 

“Hannibal,” Will murmured, yearning to touch him, hungry for his skin, for closeness. He’d never been particularly needy, postcoitally. Once the pleas of his body had been answered. But now, his body became possessed by a different hunger, something that reached out from within him. A longing in his soul, to stretch across the divide between them. To embrace.

“Shh.” He didn’t swat Will aside this time, but grasped his fingers, raising them to place a kiss on each, then on the center of his palm, on the inside of the wrist. “You may touch yourself,” he instructed, laying Will’s hand back over his chest, “but nothing else.”

“You’re something else,” Will panted, transfixed as Hannibal’s hands, those deadly, elegant things, undid his own belt. Will’s own fingers skirted up to his nipples—sensitive from Hannibal’s teasing earlier, but not so much that they hurt—already feeling his desire rise, even if his body couldn’t. 

Buckle undone, and then the button of his pressed slacks. The remainder of the packet of lube squeezed into his right palm.

“ _God.”_

But though Hannibal pulled himself free from the constraints of his clothing, he did not expose any more of himself than necessary. 

It didn’t matter. That was a sight enough to behold. 

“Jesus.”

“Are you having a religious experience?” Hannibal teased, hand already moving. 

For one moment Will’s whole world narrowed down to the scene that Hannibal had set. Looming over him, stroking over himself, eyes sparkling with darkness and depravity. But Hannibal wouldn’t let him relax in comfort, enjoying the view. No. He’d set out to torture Will, and he knew just the way to do it. 

“Look at you,” Hannibal said, touching Will’s stomach, sticking to the skin where his saliva had left it tacky. “Covered in the marks that I have given you, ravished and _pink_.”

Will’s lips parted on a _what_ , about to protest this humiliating monologue, when the fingertips on his belly trailed up over his sternum, tapped his chin, and insinuated themselves between his lips. 

Will didn’t mind. He lapped at them, sucked gently. They pressed down on his tongue, then, another admonition that he not touch. Will would’ve laughed, if he wasn’t busy growing warm all over, all over again.

“Are you aware of the vision you created when I happened upon you with Frederick?” he asked, continuing to tease himself in long, loose strokes, passing a thumb through his precome, tightening his grip marginally before sweeping back down. “The way the light illuminated your neck and shoulders—the temptation they presented to me as I stood behind you, as I guided your hand?”

A languorous blink was all the response Will could manage, though his fingers tightened on his nipple before skipping down past his stomach to see if— _nope._ Still too much.

“I could devour you,” Hannibal rumbled, his hand no longer loose around his cock, but gripping it tight. “And you would let me, you devious boy.”

Never mind how his skin prickled, how his body protested, Will took himself in hand. His eyelids drooped, but he batted them open again, determined to not miss a minute of this.

“You’re lovely like this,” Hannibal groaned. He leaned in, the heat of his body rolling down onto Will, who basked in it like a lion in the sun. “Just as lovely covered in blood, as you will be covered in my come.”

Will moaned around Hannibal’s fingers in his mouth. Desire blazed in his belly, and though his body refused to cooperate, his mind grew dizzied with want, only half following the filth flowing from Hannibal’s lips.

Hannibal’s grip on himself changed again, the veins on the backs of his hand coming into relief. He plucked his fingers from Will’s mouth to grab at Will’s hip, steadying himself. A few more quick pumps, and Hannibal’s deep, satisfied groan filled the room, as he painted Will’s stomach, cock and thighs with white.

A flush of mortification burned Will’s cheeks from the inside out. But he couldn’t speak—Hannibal’s fingers may as well still be pressing his tongue down, because he couldn’t form a single word, only another garbled moan, full of his desire. He lay there, the weight of Hannibal’s instructions pinning him in place.

Above him, Hannibal worked himself through his orgasm, his eyes half-lidded, his face luminous with smug satisfaction before he tucked himself away.

“Lovely,” Hannibal murmured, running his hand up and down Will’s side, his smile turning positively _villainous_. “So good, Will.”

Will’s skin felt stained with red everywhere that wasn’t stained in white. He groaned, shaking his head. So embarrassing. 

And then Hannibal’s lips pressed a reverent kiss onto his cheek, and his nose nuzzled up into the curls over his ears. “Perfect,” he murmured.

And then maybe Will didn’t mind it as much. Or at all. “ _Hannibal_ ,” Will managed, finally breaking free from his thrall. He ran his fingers through the mess Hannibal had left on his stomach, holding them aloft for both of them to see. “And you called _me_ messy.”

“We’re not at risk of anyone finding this evidence, though, are we?”

Will chuckled, dropping his hand. “Not if you do as good a job cleaning up as you did at Frederick’s.”

Hannibal’s hands moved over him, giving him the caresses that he had been so desperate for after his own release. “Shall we go to bed?”

Will blinked up at him before shaking his head again, this time on a wicked grin. “Tired out already?” he asked, grabbing a fistful of Hannibal’s shirt and tugging him down for another lingering kiss.

“Not at all. The night’s still young,” Hannibal replied, eyes hooded, passionate. “And the candle is still burning.” 

  
  


~✉~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We weren’t lying when we said this chapter was going downhill into the gutter.  
> But the thing is, we’re not done yet.
> 
> Can you believe we only have one chapter left to go?   
> Join us for the final chapter on 12/4!


	9. It ends in bloodshed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 22 minute read.
> 
> CW: Explicit sexual content

~✉~

**The Postman’s Knock**

Chapter Nine

It ends in bloodshed.

~✉~

  
  


Will collapsed onto the mattress, his exhausted body sinking into it, a cloud in heaven. Hannibal followed, laying beside him and pulling their bodies close. He pressed his nose to the side of Will’s neck, planting soft kisses and breathing him in, trailing a caress over Will’s stomach, skipping around the evidence of their earlier activities drying into his skin. 

With a chuckle, Will swatted his hand away, and then a sweet, glowing quiet fell over them.

A shame that Will’s mind would never let him bask in the afterglow for long. This was _too_ good. 

With Hannibal’s comments about the candle, the hickeys… he had a possessive streak, but Will knew from experience that possessiveness didn’t imply longevity. And yet, this moment between them had that air of—of _permanency_ that Will always avoided in these kinds of liaisons. 

_But this feels different._

Like it could last.

That is, until their alter egos came into the picture. 

“Hannibal,” Will murmured, turning his face toward his bedmate, who still nipped and sucked at his neck. “Can we talk for a minute?”

The kisses slowed to a stop. Another long inhalation with his nose tucked against Will’s skin before he pulled away. “Ominous words,” he teased as he rose onto his elbow, cradling his head in his hand.

“I don’t want to make any assumptions about what your plans are for—” a vague wave in the space between them, “for _this_.”

“By which you mean, you want me to tell you what my plans are for us.”

“You’ve proven yourself the type to make those kinds of plans, with or without my participation.” A tease, but the specter of Frederick Chilton bore him out. 

“A fair point.” Hannibal gave the question due consideration, his eyes dark in the low light, reflecting the movement of the dwindling flames but not the color. Eerie and yet charming. “I have never been in a position to contemplate a long-term liaison. Our hobbies…” his hand settled over Will’s fingers, drawn like the tide to the moon. “Our hobbies hardly lend themselves to the fostering of intimacy with others.”

“Our predilections are not theirs,” Will agreed. “There’s—there’s certainly potential.”

“Chemistry.” Hannibal’s voice simmered, rougher than his usual composed tones.

With the sweep of Hannibal’s thumb over his wrist, Will melted, wanting to throw his hands off and shelve this topic for _later_. Much later. Maybe never. But he held fast. 

“Like I said. Potential. But if we’re going to make this last more than—” he groped for a time span that didn’t seem either presumptuous or desperate, before settling on, “a few dates, we need to get some things straight.”

 _Dates._ Chilton would object to that terminology. Not that that was a— _this is ridiculous_.

Those distracting fingertips trailed over the inside of Will’s wrist, up his forearm to his elbow, and back down before drawing a circle in the center of his palm. Will had enough. He closed his hand like a venus fly trap, catching Hannibal’s fingers to still them. 

“Our selection criteria overlaps,” he persevered, unable to resist the urge to release Hannibal’s digits in favor of trailing a similar path over Hannibal’s forearm. Corded muscle, delineated veins. His heart pounded a little harder. “But not enough.”

“You believe my standards too broad, too all-encompassing.” The warmth that had reignited in Will’s chest fizzled at the cold, defensive tone in Hannibal’s reply. 

Will’s fingers stopped moving. _Not used to direct critiques of his process._ “I’m saying it could stand to undergo some refinement.”

“Perhaps it is your criteria that would benefit from liberalization, instead,” Hannibal countered, cutting. 

If he could punt Hannibal from the bed, he would. He drew back his hand, shut his eyes to block out the infuriating monster before him, to scrounge up some patience. “I’m saying there’s a middle ground somewhere between both extremes.”

This seemed to mollify the affronted cannibal. He pursed his lips in consideration before making his proposal. “In the cases where we choose to act together, we select a specimen that would satisfy both of our preferences.”

“Okay,” Will controlled his breathing. “But—but a veto from one side would preclude the other side pursuing that _specimen_ on their own.” 

Hannibal balked. 

“ _Hannibal_.”

“That stipulation is skewed in your favor,” Hannibal argued. 

Will’s jaw clamped shut. The words came out through clenched teeth, seething. “Maybe. But it’s non-negotiable.”

A tense moment of silence, filled with the deafening roar of their mutual antipathy **.** But, though Will burned with a frigid rage, a small portion of him tumbled into devastation. Had they reached an impasse so quickly? Had he been right to try to protect himself before—before the fire of their passion died out, and what potential lay between them crumbled into ash?

The tension broke when Hannibal leaned forward and touched their foreheads together. A gentle, intimate gesture. “Any relationship between us, Will, could only ever end in death.”

Not a concession, but a warning. A bargaining chip. 

“And if we must end in death, I would prefer that we not end in bloodshed. Taking negotiation off the table assures the latter. And consider, the former has so much appeal.”

 _God help me._ Will thawed. “Holding hands, at a ripe old age?”

“Is that so preposterous?” Hannibal asked, bending down to touch his lips to Will’s. Lingering. Sweet.

 _This manipulative little shit_ , Will thought with affection, leaning into the caress. 

“About the organs,” Hannibal murmured, punctuating each word with a subsequent kiss.

Will stiffened. “What about them?” 

“I’m afraid that collection of the organs is something upon which I must insist.”

“Didn’t you _just say_ nothing should be non-negotiable? And you’re going to make our tableaux into art murder no matter what I say,” Will argued, pulling away from those tantalizing lips, sources of deceit and persuasion. “If you take the organs too it may as well just be a Ripper kill.”

A fleeting frown on Hannibal’s preternaturally still face. To his credit, he yielded Will’s space back to him, tilting his head in thought. “I understand why you might object.”

As much of a concession as Will could expect. He decided to press the point. “Alana said you were filling her shoes at the FBI for a bit.”

“I am.”

“So you know how they’d read that scene. They wouldn’t see a new killer, they'd see the Ripper branching out. Jack Crawford has _always_ favored the Ripper.”

“This is a matter of professional pride for you,” Hannibal summarized. “I’d been under the impression that your interest lay in satisfying your sense of justice, rather than achieving notoriety with the authorities.”

“It’s not just that. I killed Elmer Payne with the ghost of your hand guiding mine. And even though I enjoyed it, it didn’t—that’s not who I am, or who I want to be. But that’s beside the point.” Will swallowed around a sudden knot in his throat. “If we’re starting something new together, Hannibal,” and when the man’s eyes sparked at the sound of his name, Will lowered his voice, softened his tone to tug that tension taut, “I want it to feel like it belongs to _both_ of us.”

Hannibal hesitated. Will went in for the kill. 

He leaned ever so slightly forward, tipping his chin down so he could peer up at Hannibal from below, from beneath his lashes. “ _Please_?”

Hannibal smiled, thumb brushing over Will’s bottom lip. “How could I do anything but agree when you ask so prettily?”

Will parted his lips, enticing that digit to enter, then scraped his teeth against the flesh. A gentle nip. “Wouldn’t talk that way within biting distance.”

Hannibal laughed, pulling his thumb free to smear Will’s saliva onto his lips. Will fought the moan, but it escaped him anyway. “You choose—to begin with. We negotiate the logistics. My pantry remains stocked.”

The thought occurred to Will that he teetered at the precipice of making a deal with the devil. He shivered. This meant that they would never be free of one another. In Hannibal’s words, that they could only end in death. 

He pulled Hannibal toward him, settling his teeth near the nape of Hannibal’s neck and biting down hard. When Will pulled away, Hannibal’s pupils dilated. 

Adoration. Lust. 

“Now we’re even?” Hannibal asked, tracing the edges of the parallel mark on Will’s neck.

“Even Steven,” Will said, satisfied by the dark bruise on Hannibal’s skin. “You have a deal.” 

Hannibal indulged him with a smile, another kiss, before lying on his back and stretching his arm out for Will to rest his head on. Moonlight streamed through the window, softening the sharp angles of Hannibal’s features, rendering him almost ghostly. Will traced the outline of his body in the darkness. Watched his chest rise and fall with soft, steady breaths until his eyelids grew heavy with fatigue. His hand traveled over Hannibal’s chest to settle over his heart, and, drifting along with the steady beat, for once his mind remained silent.

Will woke to the rumbling purr of Artemis on his chest, kneading at his collarbones and the gentle huffs of dogs still deep in slumber. He closed his eyes again, indulging in this peace, until, in a deluge, the memory of the night prior rushed back. Untangling himself from the covers, he swung both legs over the side of the bed and jumped to his feet, so fast that his vision swam with black dots. The dogs rocketed to his side, tails swishing. Will steadied himself, waiting until the world came into focus. Hannibal’s clothes from the previous day lay folded on the wooden chair across the room. He must have changed at some point.

_If he’s making morning-after breakfast wearing that smug smile of his, I’m going to kill him._

But Will and the gang didn’t find Hannibal in the kitchen. The distant sound of running water from upstairs told them Hannibal had helped himself to Will’s shower instead of the stove. 

As Will scooped food into bowls for Artemis and the dogs, the water shut off. Heavy footfalls creaked across the second floor and down the stairs. Will put the leftover food into a tupperware in the fridge and washed the pot he’d heated it in, one ear pricked all the while for Hannibal’s approach. But when the doctor remained out of sight, Will headed upstairs to take his turn in the bathroom, the air still heavy with steam. He wiped a circle into the fogged-up mirror and brushed his teeth before hopping into the shower, where he allowed his mind to replay the previous evening. How needy he must have looked.

 _Goddammit_. Will wrapped his fingers around his rising cock, gripping the base and squeezing. He pumped himself, almost losing it when he imagined Hannibal with him, the weight of his heavy gaze, his warm touch. Will’s eyes drifted shut. Drawing his other hand behind him, he dipped it low and with labored breaths, worked himself open, first one finger and then a second. His desire waned from the pain and efforts of concentration. No matter how deep he went, he could not find the sweet spot that Hannibal reached with ease. He left the shower unfulfilled and frustrated. _Would’ve been better with lube._ After drying off, he tied the towel around his waist and went downstairs, grabbing a pair of socks and underwear from the drawers on his way to the bedroom.

Hannibal waited for him there, seated on the bed with his hands folded in his lap, effortlessly stylish in black slacks and a white T-shirt. He looked up when Will entered, gaze trailing up and down his bare chest and legs. Will cleared his throat. “Those aren’t my clothes, are they?”

Hannibal gestured to the brown canvas bag next to the night stand. “I always keep an overnight bag in the car. Preparedness—”

Will cut him off. “—is not just for boy scouts. Yeah, you made that _very_ clear last night.”

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitched. He stood. Will backed up on instinct, the grip on his towel tightening. “Let me just put some clothes on.” 

“Why?” Hannibal hummed, taking measured steps closer. Prowling.

The question shot straight to Will’s dick. _God, what’s wrong with me?_

As Hannibal approached, Will noticed the purpling teeth marks on his neck. Satisfaction welled up within him as he studied the placement, so conspicuous that even a turtleneck would strain to cover it. But the triumph didn’t last. Hannibal reached across the last bit of distance and grabbed Will’s waist, jerking him forward until their chests touched. Dark gray spots formed on Hannibal’s shirt where droplets from Will’s hair fell onto the fabric. Even through the thick material of the towel, Will knew Hannibal could feel his traitorous cock hardening.

“We can’t do this now.”

The grip on Will’s waist tightened. “Having second thoughts?”

“It’s not that. It’s—I just took a shower.” 

“Take another one after.”

“Seems counterproductive.”

“You are alone in that opinion. I intend to be _very_ productive.” Hannibal clutched the back of Will’s thighs and hoisted him up, legs akimbo. Will yelped, the towel falling to the ground as he wrapped his legs around Hannibal’s waist, his hands around his neck. Suspended in air only for a moment before he landed on the soft covers. Hannibal wasted no time, falling onto Will in a frenzy of starved kisses, his tongue prying his lips open and robbing him of oxygen. 

Will’s aching cock rubbed against Hannibal’s T-shirt, and he reveled in the friction. But not for long. Hannibal sat up and shucked off his shirt, still partly clothed, while Will lay naked beneath him. His cheeks prickled with mortification.

“Move up a bit,” Hannibal grunted. Will complied, centering himself on the bed. Hannibal settled between his legs and returned to his mouth, pressing their lips together once more. When they separated for air, Hannibal reached toward the nightstand. Will followed his movements, and seeing lubricant that hadn’t been there earlier, thought to ask how it got there. But better not to. If he heard that line about preparedness one more time, he might suffocate the man with a pillow. As Hannibal took the packet, Will noticed a condom beside it. His stomach flip-flopped and he tore his eyes away to see Hannibal squeeze a liberal amount of lubricant on his fingers. 

He lay his head back, bracing for the cold gel, for Hannibal to work his fingers inside. But instead, Hannibal kissed his way up Will’s inner thigh, breathing warm and humid against him, before laving his tongue where he’d been so generous last night. Will groaned, letting his legs fall wider, drowning in sensation. The tongue drew away, teeth occupying themselves with dotting more nibbling suck marks where the kisses had fallen before, and then—

Will’s breath hitched at the press of a warm, slick finger entering him. It eased inside, an improvement from Will’s own earlier efforts in the shower.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “I see you found your shower stimulating in more ways than one.”

“Have I told you how annoying you are?” Will asked. The intrusion burned, but not in the same unpleasant way as his own experiments. Hannibal had a way of maneuvering, a talent for pulling groans of satisfaction out of Will. Would he ever be able to get off without thinking of Hannibal’s skillful caresses, his knack for undoing him? Will almost passed out when Hannibal crooked those lovely fingers upwards, touching the part that made Will see stars.

“Breathtaking,” Hannibal said. He took Will’s wrist and guided it to his clothed cock, urging him to feel the stiffness there. “See what you do to me?”

Will blushed, retracting his hand as if he’d been shocked. “You talk too much.”

Hannibal gripped Will by the shoulder and hip, flipping him over onto his stomach. Will’s swallowed his protests to being manhandled when Hannibal resumed his ministrations, lowering to suck against a sensitive spot on his neck. He re-entered Will with two fingers, twisting and spreading them.

“If you keep doing that,” Will gasped, “I won’t last much longer.”

“What’s to be done about that?” Hannibal asked, voice dripping with false concern. Will refused to look behind him. Refused to acknowledge the self-congratulatory expression Hannibal was probably making.

He heard the crinkle of a wrapper ripping open. Then, the sound of a zipper. Hands slightly sticky from the lube hoisted Will’s hips up. Will bit his lip, feeling the weight of Hannibal’s cock against him, rubbing up and down where he wanted him most.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Will breathed, his hand snaking between the mattress and his body to grasp his cock for relief. Hannibal moved it away, his hand covered Will’s, fingers twining together.

“When you come,” Hannibal murmured against Will’s throat, “it will be my touch that undoes you.”

Will might have managed it from those words alone.

“Tell me if it’s too much, and I’ll stop,” Hannibal said.

Will nodded, bunching the sheet into his clenched fist as Hannibal sunk into him. Hannibal brushed aside the curls at his neck, kissing below his ear lobe. “Beautiful,” he breathed, pushing a bit deeper. “You’re taking me so well.” 

It was uncomfortable, but Hannibal’s soothing words, full of sincere admiration, distracted him from the foreign feeling enough to concentrate on other sensations. The closeness they shared, the way their bodies fit together. Hannibal grabbed Will’s cock, brushing his thumb over the head. Will forced back tears of relief as Hannibal stroked him, his fist around him steady in its quest to bring him to the edge. Shivers racked Will’s body, his climax evading him. Right before he let go, Hannibal stilled. Will moaned, shooting him an accusatory glare.

“Don’t be cruel.”

“Will,” Hannibal maintained eye contact with Will as he sunk in deeper, brushing that spot that made Will dizzy with pleasure. “You don’t know how cruel I can be.”

Sheathed inside, Hannibal’s sturdy thighs lay flush with the back of his legs. Hannibal spread kisses from Will’s neck and along his shoulder and then straightened. He held Will by his waist, pulling out slightly and easing back in.

Will arched into it, aching to feel Hannibal along every inch of his burning skin. Beads of sweat, residual droplets from the shower, or perhaps even tears, dripped onto the sheets beneath his cheek where it lay mashed against the fabric. 

_I can’t believe I’m doing this_. Will struggled to adjust to the penetration, how Hannibal’s cock stretched him open beyond what he thought he could take. Slow at first, the cadence of Hannibal’s hips increased as the initial discomfort subsided and pleasure took its place.

Wet curls fell into Will’s eyes, jostled out of place by the force of Hannibal’s hips on each snap forward. He struggled to remain upright, his palms sliding across the sheet with each jab forward. Hannibal’s grip on his waist tightened, the nails of those elegant fingers digging sweetly into his flesh. 

“How does it feel, Will? Better than your fantasies?” 

Will moaned, heat rushing to his face. “What makes you think I’d fantasize about you?”

Hannibal gripped Will’s hips harder. “Perhaps you imagined it in that archaic truck of yours,” he said, nonchalant, despite his brutal pace. “Pretending I’m there, with you seated on my lap. Hoping the neighbors don’t walk by and see you writhing on me, moaning and pliant in my arms. You’d have to take your pleasure.”

Will whimpered, assailed by those titillating images. No way Hannibal would let him out of the truck without making a mess of his uniform. He would have to be quick about the deliveries, avoid being seen.

Beneath them, the bed creaked, a rhythmical thumping against the wall. Will felt both grateful there were no neighbors for miles, and worried that the frame would collapse under them. 

_Too much._ The harsh slap of Hannibal’s hips against with his ass, the wet sounds of sex among the panting, being impaled by Hannibal over and over. Will’s quivering arms gave out. Hannibal lowered himself over Will, pinning him against the mattress, grinding down into him. 

Another ragged moan peeled from Will’s throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, barely holding himself together as he took it. His cock wept drops of precome, smeared onto his belly as Hannibal plowed into him. Mortified by the noises he was making, he buried his face in the pillow.

“No, Will,” Hannibal threaded his fingers through Will’s hair, gently lifting his head. “Let me see you.” He sunk into Will as far as he could go and stilled, his cock a ruthless pressure against Will’s prostate. Will squirmed beneath him, but Hannibal’s hips kept him in place.

“Tell me what you want, Will.”

“There’s no way,” Will said, breathless.

Hannibal pulled almost completely out before snapping his hips forward in a punishing thrust. An overwhelmed tear slid down Will’s cheek.

“Ask me nicely,” Hannibal demanded.

“God, please.”

“Please, what?”

“Take me, you cocky son-of-a-bitch.”

With an animalistic growl, Hannibal flipped Will over. He reclaimed his place between Will’s thighs, taking his wrists in a firm grip, giving him no time to think before entering him again. Before resuming his pitiless pace, driving them both toward climax.

Will struggled to free his restrained limbs, but Hannibal held him, veined forearms bulging with effort. He was utterly at Hannibal’s mercy. “Ungh,” he sobbed, wrapping his legs tight around Hannibal, desperate to get him closer, to feel him deeper. He wanted to suspend himself in this moment, where nothing else mattered, no pestering thoughts entered his head. 

Will climbed to the edge. He squeezed his eyes closed, mouth open and sputtering garbled cries.

“Where would you like it?” Hannibal asked.

“What?” Will panted. “Oh. Fuck, I don’t know. Anywhere but inside.”

Hannibal fixed him a meaningful look. Will almost laughed; they were using protection. He felt the laugh build up in his chest at the ridiculous prospect. A cannibalistic serial-killer with scruples about safe sex.

Hannibal hummed. “Where would you prefer?” he asked, and leaned down for a kiss. Their mouths molded together, Hannibal’s tongue sweeping past Will’s lips.

“God,” Will said, pressing the words against Hannibal’s skin. “On my chest.”

“As you wish.” Hannibal smiled and straightened up, renewing his tempo.

Companionship eluded Will all his life. He indulged in polite company, Alana and Margot among them. When he wanted to touch and be touched, he allowed nothing more than brief trysts with short-lived partners. In a sick way, Hannibal offered something none of them could. Stability. The possibility of mutual understanding, _complete_ understanding. A deeper connection than mere attraction. 

And plenty of attraction, too.

“Come for me.” Hannibal whispered, bringing Will out of his thoughts. Will glanced up. For all the control he surrendered to Hannibal, Will felt, nothing but worship reflected in his eyes.

Will’s mind went blank as he let go, painting them both in white, some catching on Will’s chin. He twitched as Hannibal continued driving into Will, refusing to ease up on his thrusts through his orgasm. He lay limp on the bed, still pinned down by his wrists, body spent and overstimulated. The aftershocks of pleasure tore through him as Hannibal worked toward his own climax. Hannibal pulled out, ripping the condom off to take himself into his hands. A few pumps and Hannibal shuddered, his release joining Will’s on his chest. Hannibal’s elbows gave, covering Will, his warm weight a comfortable blanket.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” Will croaked. 

Hannibal breathed into his neck, exhausted. “You could stay with me.”

“Then take off your pants. That looks uncomfortable.”

Hannibal lifted his weight off Will do as he said. Garment in hand he got out of bed, scooping the abandoned towel off the floor. He exited the bedroom and returned a moment later with a damp cloth in hand. Having already wiped himself down, Hannibal got back into bed and gently cleaned Will of their combined exertion.

“Thank you.” 

They maneuvered under the covers, holding each other, reveling in the peace of the moment.

Hannibal, the first to break the silence. “You never compensated me for the mailbox you ruined.”

Will smiled, a wolf’s smile. “Didn’t I?”

~✉~

**Four months later**

~✉~

Hannibal moved the phone to cradle it between his ear and his shoulder, stripping the stained nitrile gloves from his hands to discard them into the trash bin as he did so. 

“—than the last one,” Jack Crawford was saying. “It’s like each victim he picks is a worse person than the one that came before.” 

“He is hardly a vigilante, Jack,” Hannibal said, stepping in front of the sink to wash his hands. A glance at the clock. He could spare the man only a few more minutes before his next order of business. “You’ve seen his tableaux in person. The cold calculation of his methods, and yet the passionate application of force. He is one flesh, two minds.”

A long-suffering sigh down the line sounded like so much static. “I’m just grateful—God forgive me for saying this—that Freddie Lounds isn’t around to torment us about him. Between the Mutilator, the Ripper, and now the Ferryman, she’d be the first one with a pitchfork at my door.”

“I’m certain she would have named him something equally inflammatory. At least ‘The Ferryman’ has some elegance to it.” He dried his hands then took hold of the phone, relieving his neck of the awkward angle. 

“Yeah, thanks for that one, by the way,” Jack huffed. “Zeller is still trying to make ‘The Charon Killer’ stick.”

Hannibal laughed. “Charon, demoniac form, with eyes of burning coal, collects them all, beckoning, and each that lingers, with his oar strikes,” he quoted. 

“That—uh—you said that was Dante?”

“The Divine Comedy, yes,” Hannibal hummed, leaving the basement, climbing the stairs up into his pantry on his way to the front of the house. “No new information on the coins left behind at the scene? Clutched in the hand this time, you said?”

“More ridiculous antiques,” Jack said. “Can’t find out anything about them, no sale history to be found, apparently, but the art appraiser quoted us their value. It’s a shame they’re evidence. If we could sell them, we might be able to give out some hefty holiday bonuses this year.”

A flick of his wrist to check the time yet again as he walked into the living room. He parted the curtains to peek outside, not at the front yard, the delicate green of Spring foliage, the pink and white of the cherry blossoms flowering along the sidewalk, but at the quiet street beyond it. 

“I do apologize, Jack,” Hannibal said, even though the road remained empty. “I have some pressing business to attend to. Would you mind if we continued this discussion tomorrow, perhaps?”

A little grumbling, but Jack remained unfailingly polite. He had come to treasure Hannibal’s assistance, with all the amazing insight that he seemed to have into the murderous Big Three of the DC metro area. He would do or say nothing that had the potential to upset him—an excellent quality in an employer. 

Hannibal hung up and tucked his phone into his pocket. Another glance out the window, still quiet. 

And then, as always, Hannibal heard it before he saw it. His heart rate—a sedate fifty-eight beats per minute at rest—kicked up into at least the mid sixties, an almost Pavlovian response to the sound of the lumbering, ancient mail truck. _And none will hear the postman's knock without a quickening of the heart. Auden_. Though this postman didn't knock. 

No, he turned the corner from Greenway onto Stratford Street, more than fifteen minutes behind schedule. Hannibal prized punctuality, of course, but his opinion on the Postal Service as a whole would not reverse entirely over the occasional late arrival. 

Particularly _this_ late arrival. 

With a measured tread, he left the sitting room for the front door, taking a moment to collect himself. A deep breath, and then he opened it in time to see the truck come to a screeching halt where it always did: obstructing passage up Hannibal’s drive. 

Its metal door slid open, missing his mailbox by mere inches. The bang as Will slammed it shut made Hannibal flinch. 

Will ducked out of the vehicle, cheeks pink and hair tousled, a handful of envelopes in hand. 

“You’re late,” Hannibal murmured, meeting him halfway between the house and the sidewalk. Really, Will the Postal Worker’s crimes extended far beyond tardiness.

“Got held up,” Will said, passing the bundle over. “There’s a new puppy about six blocks back.”

Hannibal shook his head as he accepted the packet of mail. “Count yourself lucky that I’ve gotten used to planning for your poor time management.”

“You should count _yourself_ lucky,” Will whispered, his hand slithering across Hannibal’s waist, keeping in step with him as they turned toward the house. “I found us a good one.”

“Have you?” Hannibal answered, holding the door for Will to precede him inside. 

Will rolled his eyes, though he stopped as he passed by, first to swipe a stray droplet of blood from Hannibal’s cheek, and then to plant a soft kiss on the skin where he had spotted it.

“What a coincidence,” Hannibal said, following him into the house. “So have I.”

Hannibal held it as true that if an institution could ever be a perfect embodiment of evil, it would be the DMV. When it came to the Postal Service, however, he could think of not a single censorious word to say.

  
  


~ **Fin** ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What to say? It’s been quite the 2020 adventure. What started off as an idle suggestion for a collaborative effort turned into a love story about a cranky postman cum serial killer and the heart-eyed cannibal who fell ass-over-kettle for him.
> 
> You stuck with us through overturned flowerpots, motel room murders, baby showers, sensual lobotomies in purple lame thongs, sex candles and gratuitous misuse of Aunt Marybeth’s pillow. From names in a rolodex to names in a murder prenup. We dragged you through talks of FEELINGS. Which, what are those? The dictionary definition doesn’t really help much. Oh. And sex. 
> 
> But we’re out of the gutter now and soon out of 2020. We hope you enjoyed reading this self-indulgent claptrap as much as we enjoyed writing it! What fun adventures will 2021 bring? 
> 
> Who can say?


End file.
